Italic Dreams

By Nigel Crofts

A romantic tragi-comedy set in the Spring of 1980, in a typical market town. A different time but just the same. This is the anonymous story of Simon Slatcher, told over a few months. This is the story of millions living in the shadows on unknown streets, where laughter, romance and dream, hold life together by a fragile thread.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nigel Crofts
• Release date: Mar 14, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215008546

Nigel Crofts

I wrote my first poem cycling home from work at the age of 16, back in 1979. A few years later I wrote the novel that you see here. Writing poetry is my prime interest (even my novel has an element of poetry in it). I would like to say writing is a hobby, but I realise now that it's more of an obsession.

Book preview

ITALIC DREAMS

Copyright: Nigel Crofts

Original Draft: 1983

Published: June 2020

Revisions: January 2022

Minor Revisions: March 2022

Minor Revisions: May 2022

Minor Revisions: January 2023

Minor Revisions: December 2023

The right of Nigel Crofts to be identified as author of this Work has been asserted by him in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the publisher. You must not circulate this book in any format.

…Creak the stiff hinges in all memory’s rust

Pre-Raphaelite paradise glows over the shelf

Reflection losing colour in the layers of dust

Mocking those caged in the dark trap of self.

Lost Love Found

in

ITALIC DREAMS.

Chapters.

Preface.

1 In the Beginning...

2 Wasted.

3 The Mission Position.

4 Unseasoned greetings.

5 Close Encounters.

6 Alcohol and Ice.

7 Fallen Angels.

8 ‘Don’t Call Us’.

9 Immobility.

10 No Cock and Bull.

11 Promises, Promises.

12 Death of an Angel.

13 Found Love Lost in…

14 …Broken Dreams.

Epilogue: Dream On?

Preface.

With each generation, attitudes, fashion, politics, society, technologies, all change and evolve, not always forward or for the best. Too rarely are advances made to the glory of all humankind or the benefit of every individual. Progressive eras have filled us with hope, the promise of a new united utopia but alas, greed, megalomania, religion, ignorance, arrogance, intolerance, madness, lack of compassion, have all in their devious ways commandeered moments of achievement for their own selfish gain, allowing a minority of rich and powerful to maintain control over the slaving masses. Flint for tools became the arrows of conflict. The miraculous discovery of metals led to the manufacture of beautiful artefacts and jewellery, adorned with the Earth’s own precious stones. Metal also put crueller heads on those arrows and gave a wicked glint to the new polish of lethal swords. For irony’s sake, their statement handles often beautifully bejewelled too. Only the wealthy can afford expensive armour. Some call this heavy burden the weight of responsibility, but these self-made cages are merely trophies to human folly, glinting in the landscape to receive a thousand pointless arrows.

History repeatedly reminds us that post-war relief, prosperity and euphoria are always chased by paranoia and the expense of preparing for the next bitter conflict. The wonders of expanding knowledge in the medical field should give us all the opportunity for longer, healthier lives. Instead, it becomes a privilege of those who can afford it (expensive armour). Yet these medical technological advances, coupled with those made in the exploration of space, are where unanimous effort should be focused. Too often investments are only committed if there are military implications (new armour). If we’re not fighting, we’re playing, the gaming industry a huge business. An obsession that toys with billions of pounds but remains a frivolous waste of resources. Ironically, most of those games involve shooting up stuff and fighting virtual wars from within a false armour.

Children of the 1960s and 70s were wide-eyed victims of the Space Age, the giant leap of hope that escaped the pull of Earth, only to stall on the moon. The thrill generated by that frantic Space Race was tangible, regardless of ulterior motive. The wobbly cartoon science fiction on TV and in movies, in novels and colourful comics, was becoming a glorious reality. Speed of progress was miraculous, by the 1980s we’d be shuttled into orbit, living on the Moon, relaying on to Mars and beyond. In this 21st century, remarkable leaps of achievement are undoubtedly being made, driven by the curiosity to travel deeper into space and look beyond our limited vision. Albeit by a concerted but determined few, when it should be an urgent and unanimous human obsession, a peace on Earth fuelling flights of distant exploration. Yet military greed still fills its face, while 8 billion are kept in their place. Hence the disillusioned 1960’s child, frustrated for life by this profound anti-climax.

During the 1980s, technology appeared to regress, whilst we were denied the fruits of a now wildly accelerating silicone age. Available technology hadn’t seemed to advance since that energetic moon race. Ironically, with space adventures a distant memory, we’d marvelled at Space Invaders embedded in smoked glass tabletops in smoky pubs. We’d laughed enviously at the beguiling sight of brick-sized mobile phones, mocked the type of person carrying them, while some still lived in awe of new-fangled colour TV! Curious fascination has since become a voracious obsession, if with a flawed focus.

Perhaps children of the 1960/70s are the lucky ones. In the huge timescale of evolution, they’ve straddled that thin analogue to digital line, that slim rift between the simple reality of nothing and a virtual world of all. Having witnessed both, they can bore those (not much) younger with stark comparisons of innocent landscape and minefield mindscape. Such a cataclysmic change had not occurred since the Industrial Revolution, when the secret world of tightknit agricultural community was destroyed by advancing mechanisation. Cruel irony crowding these once rural folk into factories to work at machines, as machines, and into grim environments far more congested than their villages had been. Yet many became isolated, lonely and exhausted, stunned into silence by this horrendous upheaval and drudge. Then came The First World War.

Those 1960/70’s children must live with the disappointment of no second homes on Pluto. Yet we have witnessed other momentous changes in society, for good and bad, largely driven by the stratospheric growth of miniature electronics and the miracle of their immense power. Social media has become the new religion, a different form of mass control, but equally as convenient. Multitudes have avid eyes locked on some frivolous comment or inane activity emanating from the magic of a slim screen, obscenely large or impossibly miniature. Others remotely control weapon-laden drones to strafe faraway places. A relatively short interval in time marks a world of opposites. With no significant headway in electronic wizardry since the historical blip that saw advances in rocket science during The Second World War launch a briefly united humankind into space, many were left jaded. Too young to be hippies but old enough to grow cynical. Lonely isolation was(is) a very real thing, especially for the less gregarious. In today’s ceaseless bombardment of invisible signals and voyeuristic exposure, those same people now yearn anonymous sanctuary, a cocoon of silent solitude. They find no fit in either world, living between disappointment and fear. Destinations they flee to, being contradictory headspaces of screaming frustration and crippling self-loathing, too self-conscious to venture out into the endless limelight, too obsessed with profound meaning to participate in idle chat. Trapped with nowhere to hide, they find themselves involuntarily hidden.

Simon Slatcher was born in the 1957, a child of the 1960/70s. The 1980s, for all their comical simplicity to the techno literate generations of today, was an actual reality to Simon. As the world still argued over territory, religion and wealth. While wars still raged, some too close for comfort, Simon, although subliminally affected, was too preoccupied to notice. The macro-world was a daunting outward dimension, the micro-world of his limited milieu and inward perspective offered enough of a challenge. As industry was killed off, low paid employment increased control over the masses. Social interaction offered escape, but also involved commitment and effort, often worthy of venturing out to a telephone box. Courtship meant more than cold text messages; all nuances lost in translation.

Aliens in the crowd, cruel biological barriers caging those too self-conscious for casually confident interaction, a tangible and suffocating reality for many, with no easy button to press for trivial hashtag reassurance. In the bold print of life some dance in isolation, teetering alone on the thin line between insanity and an overactive imagination. They are the quiet between the lines, spaces they fill with Italic Dreams. Some only rely on simple daydream and the dreamy products of sleep, attributing much analytical store in their shallow interpretations. Others drown in regular immersion, often oblivious to the line they frequently straddle, between fantasy and reality. As you read the following slice of Simon Slatcher’s life, mirroring an anonymous many, the dreams are his, but even he will barely recall them. So, reader, though a compulsory essence to some, you may consider dreams - optional.

Chapter 1 – In the Beginning...

Spring

1980

No flying cars, no rocket bursts, no star ships, no life on Mars. No promises kept. As unseen, unseeing eyes stared without focus through the moss stains on a window’s grey glass exterior, a grubbiness annoyingly safe from the reach of bleach. This had the effect of a centuries aged mirror, reflecting the stilled fragments of his face on the spotless inner surface. Irony went unheeded, held fast in fixed green clouds as the silvered lining created a puzzle of his frozen broken features. Eyes segmented in distortion, muddy brown puddles in lawn-green blooms, openly staring back. Yet his gaze, although aimed at a distant non-horizon, peered deeply in the opposite direction, colours crisp where lavish blue meets vivid green on the perfectly level skyline of dream.

Simon Slatcher believed dreams were too brightly coloured, rapid brushed from the nearest palette, only after the fact. Smothering words and meaning in the impressionably thin moments of false awakening, where random dots joined in a failed attempt to form reason. Simon knew he dreamed in words, in endless stanzas of sleep leaked poetry, unpainted pictures lost between forgotten lines. If only he could dawn recall this transient verse, so difficult to conjure in the dreamless hours. Even the semiconscious clarity of his daylight reveries swiftly vanished into the elusive poetry of misted dream, where pastel hues barely form, and hastily scribbled lines are never black and white, although often blue.

This meditation was rudely interrupted, bringing him back into the real world and away from the security of his day-sleep, as a flock of rowdy birds danced some strange ritualistic game upon the crumbling Victorian tiles of an adjacent roof. During this flurry of feathers, moss and long-weathered slate dust, one bird decided to impress the rest of the gang by pulling up a broken corner of slate with its eager beak and wielding the shard above its comparatively tiny, yet triumphant head. Bizarrely, the hectic flapping ceased as the quietened crowd seemed enthralled by this amazing feat, most cocking their heads to one side as if questioning the purpose of such a frivolous exercise. Indeed, the random folly of this gloriously brief display soon descended, quite literally, into a wing ruffled flurry of cackling chaos. The bird had underestimated the weight of the grey corner it waved in its beak, sliding down the roof and tumbling backwards over the guttering, adding flakes of Victorian rust to its feather collection as it plummeted into the narrow gap between the two buildings. As if connected by some invisible thread, the rest of the foolish flock dived in hysterical swirling pursuit.

Awoken and equally approving of this astonishing display, Simon too was magnetically dragged from his seat and pulled nearer the window by the invisible thread that binds all creatures to curious wonder. He was unknowingly emitting a rather peculiar chuckle as he went to peer down into the dark crevice, like his fellow pursuers keen to witness the outcome of this catastrophic fall from glory. As he strained to view the mayhem below, the screech of a thousand birds seemed to echo within the walls of the squeezed space, as like hungry bats from the mouth of a cave the flock spewed back upward to bluster past the window. Somewhat startled he jumped away, almost falling back into his chair but instead only glancing it, leaving it spinning as he fell backwards onto the floor. Although certain no one lurked as witness he jumped up to check no three-dimensional eyes, only the pictures on his walls, saw this comical tumble, brushing himself down as seemed the accepted decorum in such a situation. His attention again fell through the window, but the birds had fled too swiftly to have seen his own display. Incredibly, just before he turned away, the unfortunate star of the show fluttered untidily upward past the speckled pane, still with a fragment of slate in its beak. ‘At least no-birdy was hurt’, Simon whispered in a tragic giggle of wasted wit. Excitement over, he righted the still spinning desk seat and fell back into his daylight reverie:

Wonder at new beginning on the ride to open plateau/Bridging expansive middle to fall in imminent end/Teetering on a knife-edge as toes dull the razor blow/Avoiding wasted time that others may condescend/Quiet shouts made worthless as a precious metal blunts/In a drift of groundless clouds to no purpose as it seems/Enticed serenity cushions sanctuary from the idle cunts/Obliterating ogres on the slippery slope of italic dreams/Lazy addictions are rendered reckless and strangely sweet/Where the warm sands of a paradise found will cure all ill/Drugged by the sleepy breeze to tingle with a prickly heat/As sharper harbours inoculate sin against the fevered chill/Seeds to higher purity are salt washed in a rush to disguise/Fable after fantasy fall into traps set by unforeseen minds/In a lullaby of teasing fluidity the dynamics of escape lies/Slowed by a pull from retreat as balanced beauty reminds/Calmed in visions of tranquillity where misty denial heaves/Protesting cruelty of violence appeased for a gullible glory/Defeating the lottery of steady sequence as fortune relieves/In the burial of psychology as telepathy destroys the story/Contradicting ominous irrelevance to a paradox smirking/As the benefactor steals hope to ricochet as a new mood/Disaster bridging success with the failed monster lurking/Hating to love the dozing ecstasy of pain’s creative food/Illusions of day creep in terrors of night to fuel ego’s flight/Winners confuse when destinies choose to throw ash on lust/Victory concedes a fight as raven blue passions lose height/Flying with angels of torment as invisible guardians of trust/Recall unconscious restrictions of dream filling too much/Firing the desire of frustration to empty the whole unseen/Body and soul in the treacle bowl imagining silken touch/Hostages to the past as not yet been and all else between.

Simon now stared, not out of the window but at the pen held motionless in his hand, as it hovered precariously close to the blank sheet of paper on his desk, ready to answer the questions of existence. The secrets he was sure hovered poised in that tantalising distance between nib and page, remedy in those snatched dreams scrolling as verse through his head. If only he could recall them, cage them, bring them to order. If only life was that easy. He nib-stabbed the page in frustration. Perhaps there was nothing coherent hidden there anyway, except that splattered ink full stop. He alone grasped the answers to the ultimate questions, the essence of being, the meaning of life, all condensed within that eagerly gripped straw of ink, waiting to be released. Waiting… waiting…, he spiked the pen again in anger, adding a violent scratch to the meaningless blot upon the otherwise serenely blank expanse of white.

Many desire to leave a legacy, give meaning to mornings. Simon envied those who only required a physical vent or vice, living in the moment with no desire to make a long-lasting mark. Partaking in harmless hobbies with little regard for themselves or others, void of embarrassment or conscience. Others turn to art in its many forms, with no other purpose but to satisfy creative desire, entertain and inform, throw seeds to original thought, receive recognition.

Simon wasn’t about to follow the example of his feathered friends, throwing himself from height strapped loosely to a flimsy hang-glider. Art was his vent or vice. Writing had become his form of release, after finding the guitar too hard and painting too frustrating, both requiring a talent beyond learning. Sculpture was too heavy, drumming too loud, and acting far too public. He wrote in secret. It passed the time, gave him a conviction and filled the empty spaces. He wrote a lot. The urge to write had become an insatiable obsession, but what flight of fancy he strived to satisfy remained elusive. Sitting at his squarely arranged desk, alone in his tidy apartment was an excellent sanctuary from the world. Not a hiding game of his choosing, being so well camouflaged, with nobody seeking.

Simon wished he had the brash flamboyance of a Lycra sprayed rock god, a scarf waving sculptor, a paint splattered painter, a sequined dancer or voice throwing actor but alas, he did not. To have the frustrated desire but a character that shied away from exhibition was a tortuous torment. Solitary writing was his only accessible choice, requiring nothing more than a basic degree of literacy, time, imagination and patience. Although if the ultimate intention was to have work published then a pushy nature would be preferable. He’d cross that flimsy bridge when he came to it. At present his writing remained a covert operation, a personal path to contentment, a therapy. When the time was right he’d strike, presenting his work to an astounded world. There were dust free spaces upon his few shelves waiting to be filled with many literary awards.

Poetry was Simon’s favourite form of writing, one for which he modestly believed he had a genuine aptitude. He didn’t know what had influenced this interest, for he hadn’t read any poetry since school and had read only a handful of classical novels. Although he did have a liking for 1960’s films, because the aesthetics and soundtrack of that era resonated with his conscience. He wished he’d been born ten years earlier. Poetry’s appeal was not only its hippie vibe but more so its short form and speed of creation. Simon didn’t believe in labouring for hours over a poem, dissolving the original intention. He wrote spontaneously, whatever flowed onto the page would be the poem’s final form, to be crumpled and binned or carefully logged and filed. Occasionally he’d read them later, and if they revolted him, failed to stir emotion, or if a few minor tweaks couldn’t save them, they’d be crumpled and binned.

Simon grasped the cynical truth concerning the possibility of getting poetry published as an unknown author. With each decade it became progressively difficult to be fortunate enough to carry the boast of being a published poet, given the socio-political situation as we enter the 1980s. Most successful poets, unless they knew the right people or were confident enough to put themselves on the line as performance artists, had nudged their way into this niche literary sphere via a successful novel or two. Simon had dabbled with short-stories, novellas, even full-blown novels, but nothing had inspired his pen for such a long haul. Unlike his quick-fire attitude to poetry, writing a self-rewarding, gripping and potentially successful novel would be an arduous task, requiring a high level of structure, planning and time. For the greater good he’d decided to persevere with a concerted effort in penning the perfect novel. With renewed determination he switched the blighted page before him for the latest novel he’d started. This time, certain to be his masterpiece. He sighed at the meagre effort so far, before him except for three words, another blank page. Simon stared at the lonely phrase, ‘No flying cars…’, and awaiting inspiration he became distracted:

Birds wheeling beyond the burst of window/Glinting like glass in the light after long rain/Blown across the greens of dim distant lands/Fields bloom in shimmer from yellow to blue/Colours that change with every blink in snow/Caught where the lost secrets wink away pain/Pinned to the surface as nothing falls in hands/No time to think as we meander to find a clue/With laser gazes fired to crack the blue of sky/Fear nothing in the quake of waking thunder/Caught in a torrent as the meek seek shadows/When standing tall in the squall will redeem/Escape swoops in circles to stifle the silent cry/Brushed away to where lost stars crawl under/As casual immaculate orbits fire blank arrows/Polishing hope in a desperate need to gleam/Shackled curiosity gags to see and feel the way/Fearing the gentle tread over near invisible edge/Diving to pierce the fake lull of certain success/To welcome the waving rainbow blue of victory/Grasping a cloud before it heavies as rain today/Fate perched high on the impossible eagle ledge/Landing without splash to a maiden’s wet caress/Cutting the cold water to sounds of silent glory/Collapsing in gasps to release all colours at last/Thinning foam dyed as the dream sinks in sand/As a whipped tail undermines a castle slip to sea/Painting secret beaches in her wild palette dance/A private paradise loses hue in the faceless blast/Art drops as the spiralling flock comes in to land/Smiles masked as golden glitter disguises destiny/Feathers tickle fancy as we rise to pulsing chance.

Four years ago, aged eighteen, Simon had been his bravest, escaping the comfortable family home he shared with his parents and two younger siblings. Not that it was a bad place to be, but the usual suspects hampered his existence, a brother and sister taught the etiquettes of life through the example of his mistakes. A father who constantly needled about ‘what he intended to do with his life’. While another despicable disapproval also seriously blighted their flimsy relationship. His mother cooled the heats of friction, but also nurtured the delusion of a cosy status quo, over-feathering the nest. Denying her own mortality, she could not accept her children growing up, still treating them like toddlers, never wanting them to leave. Still rubbing imaginary marks from their horrified faces with her dainty handkerchief, wiping their un-snotty noses with the same. Their father on the other hand, couldn’t see them grow up and find independence quick enough.

Many far less fortunate would view this as a suburban idyll, but other variables multiplied in influence too, making life increasingly stifling and awkward. His own fragile temperament not totally blameless. As the eldest, much of the excessive parental fussing focused on him, bypassing his tiptoeing siblings. In an ironic toddler stamp of indignation, to give his flight from the nest a full stop permanence, Simon now shunned his family. He justified his shameful abandonment of those he must supposedly love, with his own sense of being abandoned. Fleeing in angry denial, he hardly knew himself; the why? Maybe because any contact would be an admission of family reliance, or perhaps they’d see he was no happier in the struggle to live alone. His escape wasn’t complete, ghosts still haunted him.

Nevertheless, despite an ongoing battle of conscience Simon was proud of his autonomy. He wouldn’t acknowledge missing his hometown of Marxly, his new address being a mere ten miles away in the similarly quaint market town of Stradbury (nearer to work). Except he now resided close to the centre of town, whereas his parents live in a sleepy suburb of Marxly. The centre of Stradbury wasn’t particularly rowdy, although like most places with a condensed population and numerous pubs it had its moments. Simon occupied an attic flat in a large converted Victorian terrace, and yes, he did intend writing his classic there, at the desk he still sat frozen at. Pen in hand, staring wistfully at the slithers of sky he could see out of the small window, breaking up the dark gloom of the surrounding buildings. His head dipped and bounced until he slowly slumped onto the desktop asleep, scrawling incoherent nonsense until the last. When he awoke to the undecipherable scribble under his face, it was literally difficult to distinguish dream from reality:

The octopus speaks with a slippery drawl/From within the web of a seaweed scrawl/Camouflaged quick as inks quill dribble/Ejected tentacles flail their wild scribble/Smoke to cloud over eager stinging mind/Stung by the dry reality of unhuman kind/Bubbles swimming lost in the green kelp maze/The mermaid climbs to disturb a shallow craze/Clear perspective from beyond the window’s gloom/Smashing glass perception as her hair fills the room/Reaching secret corners up a hundred rusty rungs/Seeking new sonnet in the slide of silent tongues/Locked in deeper forest in a halo of global moats/Liquid golden mane circling a paradise that floats/Sinking thick to cloud imagination drunk as a sigh/A burst of brilliant sun fills the soulless winter sky/Not a storm in sight to lay heavy the greying might/Dazzled by a radiant smile of white to make it light/Dripping nectars melt to dissolve the dancing floor/Opening day to hover where an angel stood before/Cascading hours in sands of some nonsense time/Bitter differences between zingy lemon and lime/As the weight of ocean rocks old Neptune’s chair/With a tang of blue to drown we hardly even care/Lost to the treasures scattered in that deepest sleep/Dusting hoards in a careless mind is a fragile keep/Thick walls to keep her safe from the airs of hate/Keep her safely waiting at the secret sunken gate/As the alphabet scrolls for the magic alignment of sound/A river of words washes to expose a golden underground/Remaining trapped in the shallows of misspelt desire/Crumpled pages add fuel to the cold spill of blue fire/Chasing the crazed meander of a painted slumber/Naked papers too bright to bear a decent number/Rolling on as the liquid surface on every sodden sheet/A final ebb dissolving vision in an empty night of heat/Exposing truths to a velvet sky in a flicker to forget/Unready for the flash of exposure/No/Never/Not yet/When a dim revelation is at last and forever unseen/A refraction of light will show the world all I mean.

Early Saturday afternoon, his languor was earned, but he still felt a pang of guilt lazily wasting the valuable weekend, especially as his pen wasn’t flowing today. Not even the canned lubrication of beer at one elbow and the bottle of wine at the other had helped. The alcohol consumption diluted guilt as he crested the sweet spot, that pleasant stage of soaring calm, confidence levitating on euphoria. As always, this shot of Dutch courage instilled the urge to act out of character. To boldly enter the roughest pub in town (at lunchtime), buy some outrageous clothes (to replace his flares and tie-dye), shout down the street (from a jammed window high up), race his car (difficult in an old Mini). Maybe talk to a pretty girl (no chance). Perhaps he’d spend a quiet afternoon in front of his tiny black and white TV, watching a suitably old film, sipping another drink. He’d earned a rest, rushing around since early morning undertaking numerous chores. The more physical in nature the more of a (tipple) reward he deserved. He’d busied himself with some grocery shopping, tidied his already spotless flat, made another vain attempt at opening the wedged window. Finally, he’d tinkered with his little car as a firm believer in the adage, ‘look after it… it will look after you’.

Appealing as an afternoon of quiet contemplation sounded, it would be appalling to drift into a sorry stupor, drunkenly pondering his pitiful lot. Simon decided to venture out that evening, avoiding town in a drive to one of his favourite countryside haunts. Meanwhile, after being too embarrassed to buy bulk at the supermarket he needed to visit an off-licence and stock up on beverages. Beer and wine only, spirits were a slippery slope, and made him puke anyway.

Simon’s bachelor diet was no less healthy than the wider population, he wasn’t inclined to read labels for harmful additives in supermarket aisles, wanting to get out as quick as possible. Watching his mother had taught him how to cook fresh food, at least they’d given him that. Furthermore, despite spending wasted hours at his desk, Simon was obsessive about physical fitness. He saw this as beneficial in leading a longer, happier life. Essential too in attracting the right girl. He could run from trouble quicker as well. Consequently, rather than walking directly to the nearest off-licence, he’d have to earn an idle afternoon and night out, briskly walking a convoluted circular route, dropping into a liquor store on his way back. Literally skirting around the truth in this conflict of interests.

It was late afternoon when he set off, hours sipping alcohol supplying the courage to step out on a Saturday evening. Groups of people were already on their way to parties or pubs. Few were quiet. Most were laughing, talking loudly, shoving each other across the pavement, dodging lampposts, spilling into the road. Simon tried to walk tall without appearing brash, avoiding eye contact even with the girls, he didn’t want to attract attention from the rutting males. He envied the guys and yearned the girls, the women’s tight clothes, high hair and higher heels, wasted on their bigger haired, sweeter scented male counterparts. How he’d love to have one of those beauties on his arm, maybe later would be his lucky night.

Simon returned late after his long walk, the effects of alcohol had abated, he was too tired to go out. Sunday would be a quieter, safer evening to try his luck. Tonight’s tone had been set, he’d have a peaceful night in, attempt more writing, finish a bottle of wine, crack another beer or two. The arm straining, stretching bags of booze would get little time chilling in the fridge. Simon became too intoxicated too early to create magic at his desk tonight. He’d tried, if only to earn the next boozy gulp, his head becoming ink stained with a mark of shame as he dozily headbutted his ancient wet ribboned typewriter. Only tomorrow when he re-read his meagre scribble would he file it away, in the bin.

He abandoned the desk for the floor, stymieing his stupor with some frantic physical exercise, press-up bouncing on his skinny arms to burn away frustration. Not too violently, he didn’t want to upset those in the flat below. He grimaced in some gut-wrenching sit-ups until he could stomach the torture no more. Simon then jumped up, stretched out, and proceeded to throw a couple of weighty dumbbells around, carefully, for fear of dropping them on the amplifying wooden floor.

Simon was spurred on by a nicely framed poster of an alluring Kate Bush, magnificent in her wuthering barefoot beauty. Younger than he and already a picture on a stranger’s wall. An alcohol instilled belief, the exertion, Kate’s glistening pout, they all taunted his chagrin and fired adrenaline, urging him to go out and conquer the world. By the time he’d bathed, dressed and prettied himself, having nodded off until the bath waters turned cold, it was too late to venture out! Regardless of an ensuing hangover he poured a hair of the dog, slipped a favourite cassette into his ghetto blaster, plugged in his headphones and flopped on his nearby bed. He fell asleep wearing all his clothes and a silly grin. Visions of Kate dancing to the pulsating music, not wearing nearly as much:

The neatly suited playboys play at creaseless creases/Laughter never ceases running spotless in silver shine/Drifting with the grandeur of handsome at full height/Chiffon beauties billowing as helpless flags in pieces/Immaculate curve caught napping high on cloud nine/Perfect palette the exceptional contrast to velvet night/A dream come true renders treasure dull and cheap/The splitting universe frees orbit from old humdrum/Sparking nebulae flares to light the way to new stars/Every sigh and pretty eye must turn away into sleep/Fragrant ethers carrying aromas to sweeten boredom/As elegant atmospheres excellently unbalance Mars/A mixture of enticement abounds to casually yield/No sweat falls clean into the swallow of cherry lips/Washed in the tang of liqueur kiss to awaken whet/Rolled in the glitter of the dancefloor’s misty field/With a magnetic pull to admiration as timing slips/Commanding desire the superb curve of silhouette/Supernova solar gales swirl to colour an hourglass/Beams into spiral nets empty cages of angel ghosts/Graceful the rising tumult of escaping kaleidoscope/Helpless galaxies corralled around the spying mass/Bobbing in the warp speed wake of ascending hosts/Jet setting to meteor force as trailing vapours grope/Destruction is the false admiral of every enterprise/Sprawling pity slowly adapts for evolution’s sake/Lazy satisfaction slovenly willing stars into shape/Nothing fitting the artistic impressions of surprise/Into ovens of seductive sanctuary to eat stale cake/Followed by the lava flow of adoration as we gape/Until the gravity of gas dilemma polishes no brass/Density a blackhole as infinity bleeds broken glass.

Sunday morning, a few things conspired to unsettle him as he awoke with a post binge hangover, and stiff muscles post over-exertion. None of the above being on the list, including the slip from bed fully clothed. The first wasn’t too much of a surprise. He discovered last night’s written works to be truly shocking, literally. No spark of genius, no artistic merit, only disturbing diatribe. If shock-art had been his aim then he’d nailed it. Too sinful for his deskside bin it now festered in tiny torn pieces within the bean juices of the kitchen waste. Simon ignored the amount of beer cans and wine bottles that also nestled in shame.

The second was a minor annoyance. Strolling to the newsagent for a Sunday paper and carton of orange juice he noticed some drunken lout had buckled a wiper blade on his innocent kerbside car. A needless expense and pain in the ass inconvenience, but a quick fix. Something he missed about his parents’ house, a quiet street and safe driveway. The third unsettling revelation toyed more deeply with his fragile emotions, winding him as an invisible and unexpected gut punch. Sledgehammer hard.

Missed yesterday, Simon spotted mail peeking from his pigeonhole at the foot of the stairs in the entrance hallway of the converted terrace. The thrill of finding an un-bill-like correspondence made his hungry heart race. The neatly addressed white envelope tantalised with its vague familiarity. He hoped it wasn’t from his prying family. He started to open it as he stumbled back up the narrow stairs.

Surprisingly it contained a birthday card. Any excited smile fell from his lips, replaced by an injured grimace as he saw the message for what it was. The same delicate handwriting appeared inside, purposeful in its uniform neatness. It wasn’t the implied indifference in the one simple line that hurt him, but the unsubtle sarcasm of the deliberately chosen card, ‘Happy Birthday Simon, from Julie’. It wasn’t even his birthday as she well knew.

The glossy cartoon depiction was spiteful enough, a glum faced monkey playing a violin. Drolly comical but with no intention to convey the funny side. Apparently, this mean card was from one of Simon’s ex-girlfriends. Most of whom, accusing him of being old-fashioned, prudish, unadventurous, even boring. One resorted to pushing a trashy gossip magazine into his hands, an article in the agony column circled for his obvious perusal. He couldn’t read the entire ranting letter or focus to do so. Yet the bogus aunt’s ‘expert’ advice had burned itself into his memory, ‘…this overbearing boyfriend… not sure you’re compatible… you need space… he’s getting too serious… girls just want to have fun’. With not a spoken word he’d been dumped. Throwing the offending magazine to the floor he’d stormed out of her house, eventually. Despite his frantic efforts, the door handle operated in a peculiar fashion, preventing the dramatic exit of his original design. Trapping him in, letting her glory in his rising humiliation and falling tears.

Just the curious twists and turns of rampant adolescence. Simon realised too late it was all a game he wished he’d played better. Now at the age of twenty-two he knew he should have grabbed those chances with both hands. Julie was right, he’d taken it all too seriously, when all everyone wanted to do was fuck around. With this card, after all these years, it seemed Julie still wanted to play. Simon had no idea why, but the card’s bold caption still crushed him, ‘same old story, same old song, nice to see you’re still fiddling along’.

Breakfast became a ponderous affair, his cereals turning to mush long before he ate them. Simon drained an entire carton of orange juice as his mind whirred with alternate scenarios in the hopeless deduction of Julie’s motive. It wasn’t like her, yet the writing was hers. Was it a cruel joke? Did she want him back? His penchant for pessimism won over and he decided on the former. An unjust negativity weighed low and heavy, the remote possibility of an ex-girlfriend carrying him back into the clouds of ecstasy crashing to earth. Of that he was positive. It would be a struggle to bring the scales of mental stability back to an even keel:

Stumbling with unwanted noise/Tripping over the fray of broken tape/Laying in tatters at tender feet/The lost dreams of better toys/Too deep in a sink of festering mud/Buried with the stink as every eye turns/Nosey to the squelch of boggy defeat/Cocooned in peat as uncertainty burns/Hiding smiles behind false laughter/Shifting colour without care/Painting ugly into every corner/Sharp camouflage of exotic despair/In a dull glow all jesters the same/Silent marching beneath a fanfare flak/In the uniform of laundered surrender/Nothing clean in the slow race back/Time curling in space to new beginning/All friends sailing on oceans of empty sea/Deep swimming in a compressed chill/Shrinking in the bowl without will/Until a light strikes and magnifies/Focusing the gift of expanding memory/Unwrapped in the presence of the gifted/Gilded by the unforgotten unforgiving past/No ambush defended from the mast/Truth breached to high pretence lifted/Silts on a spoon reveal patterns suspended/Crushing stars in the distant sky/From a howl forlornly we cry/Turning to face the withering looks/From her perch of pristine disdain/Flat cold as a wall of unread books.

After his miserable breakfast, to stop his mind plunging deeper into despondency, Simon drove across town to the only motor supplier open on a Sunday. Very few considered this as a day of rest anymore, DIY stores and supermarkets had already tapped into this vital weekend market, when people were free to roam. Bizarrely, motor dealers were slow to follow. Simon considered walking to the suppliers, but they closed at lunchtime. He also needed to buy and fit a set of new wiper blades before undertaking a few other chores and earning his promised evening out.

Simon hated being out in the street in front of his flat for too long, and it took a while to fit the new wiper blades, largely because they had to be perfectly parallel and set in the optimum position for effective action. Plus, he treated his car to a few other repairs and touch-ups. He wondered if this act of vandalism was connected to the vindictive card, was he the target of some hideous vendetta? Simon watched for spies as he worked, but nobody lurked, and no curtains twitched. Activity was supposed to take his mind off all this crap. On the positive side his hangover had gone, and he felt much brighter after a spell in the fresh spring air.

Simon then made amends for his appalling attempts at verse the previous night by penning a couple of far more palatable poems, thus extinguishing yesterday’s boozy blip. Carefully filing these away for no one to see, he managed to add a few lines to his latest novel. He then tidied his tidy flat, before stretching out with a session of gentler exercises. Next task was to prepare an accomplished vegetarian roast. His mum would have been impressed; his dad appalled. He’d now allow himself a little drink with his Sunday lunch after working for it all morning. A drink that started while the meal was still cooking. Both parents would have been appalled.

He felt bloated after this substantial feast and a little guilty, he’d succumbed to downing a bottle of wine as accompaniment when he’d only intended having a glass or two. The remedy would be a brisk afternoon walk as punishment. The drink had revived his maudlin conjecture concerning Julie, he needed fresh air and concerted exercise to blow away the lingering distress and threatening hangover. He grabbed the offending card, he would have started tearing it up on the stairs, but he didn’t want to risk leaving any shred of evidence in the flat. The envelope, with his name written by her graceful hand, he weirdly brushed across his face before slipping it into a desk draw. A safe distance from his flat, after a furtive glance around, he ripped the card to pieces and bundled it into various litterbins as he strolled along. He’d successfully destroyed the physical evidence, but the mental scar would not be trashed so easily.

Simon tried to imagine Julie’s disposition and what induced her to send such a hurtful message, despite everything, hadn’t they been okay? How did she find him? Was she okay? He truly hoped so. He tried to put a positive spin on it, reverse psychology, the degree of effort equalled latent affection. Simon developed an odd ache in his chest as he stepped up the pace of his walk:

Love is a constant chase/Watched from the soaring tower of insecurity/On closer inspection a marble statue you cannot face/Bejewelled with the curious intrigue of impurity/Stiff neck craned to throw dry whisper at another’s undeserved glory/No such thing as a solid ideal in the dynamics of each unwritten story/Flinty joints splinter and crack to the grimacing beast’s rise/No permanence forged in the furnace to cast a passion of surprise/A scorch of heart heals as the blood of endeavour pumps/Beware the rusts of poison as the wicked needle jumps/The running red river washes as syrup into every ear/Reason plays treason to truth for the lies of survival we fear/Evolution throws brief existence into the tumbling chaos of decay/Learn enthusiasm for anonymous celebration and live for today/Senses veering to the mystical pull of affection/Soul dancing on astray and regardless of detection/Escaping the chilly clamp of painful memory/Steering in and out of time’s palpitating symphony/Driving to the rhythm creates a cooling breeze/Into the quiet of a burning ear whispering ghosts tease/Free of the sombre march where quick silvers seep/Panting without breath into the deepness of sleep/Filling thickening atmosphere with a suffocating dirge/Emptying the traps of jealousy where conspiracies merge/Swiftly pacing up and down where feet have never been/Tallying superfluous as scars on a crumbled slate already wiped clean/New squeals run silent in their distance slip to the confines of space/Leaving flesh to ache lost in the split seconds of repeated disgrace/Love mines invisible seams found rich with the filth of ore/Rolling eternity unable to crush and reveal a speck of golden core/Slaving in a chain gang chorus to the hum of low compassion/The unspoken word of thought wandered long out of fashion/A fleeting trend of misguided youth/As blind faith stares way past the truth/Predictably porous to sponge regret/Wet loyalty weeps impossible secret/Nothing is stolen or sold or bought/Nothing of value is learnt or taught.

It was a beautifully crisp spring day, the kind that filled the senses with nothing but optimism, life would brighten and flourish to its full potential. So remarkable were these powers of rejuvenation that a smirk formed on Simon’s face as he trotted along with renewed vigour. Sunday afternoon testament to the cheer this season of new growth evoked. When he returned to his flat he felt uncharacteristically positive, the walk, and perhaps the card, providing the jolts he’d needed to leap into life. Buoyed by this joyous feeling and by the volume of wine that now filled his every capillary, he felt sympathy for the misguided Julie, and proceeded to write a touching poem he titled, ‘Lost Love Found’, which his foolish heart dedicated to her. In his euphoria Simon decided he really deserved that evening out, and another drink:

The hateful pains find themselves banished/Driven to a dismal suffocation underground/All fearful reservations have now vanished/With the thrilling promise of new love found/Every dawn brings a glow to each eager heart/The beauty of living never ceasing to astound/Hoping the sun never sets to shadow our part/Happiness smiles eternal with true love found/No dark surprise lurks in the light of the soul/Every revelation glowing as a halo surround/Despair has been flushed from a deeper hole/Relishing the joy of a guardian angel found/The devastating destruction as you turned away/Every desperate sigh yearns for any scrap tossed/Your heart and your eyes and your mind all stray/Impossible to accept when a precious love is lost/Choking on pleas with nothing coherent to say/A heart full of promise bleeds double-crossed/Dawns that warmed are now cold and misty grey/No value to a suffering that carries such a cost/Annihilated and trampled a clown so crowned/In this cold humiliation can lost love be found/Endless excruciating seconds since to forget/Cruel to have seen but to have been so blind/Mean and tortuous dream that coverts regret/Difficult to leave such a wanderlust behind/It terrifies you listen but never really hear/Sad hearts scream in a world without sound/Trembling sensing your skin crawling near/To collapse into the arms of lost love found.

Chapter 2 – Wasted.

The distinctive wild rattle of the straining Mini engine goaded the tyres to attack the asphalt like a low flying hornet, cute body and subframes dragged as flights on a tossed dart through the winding countryside lanes, flying past hedgerows in full spring. The falling sun punched its way through small crevices in the greening sway of trees, arrow slotting through the open window to distract the squinting driver. The annoyance akin to the grating sound of a stick dragged along wrought-iron railings. At one with his beloved little car despite the rapier light diversion, Simon played the tiny pedals, long gearstick and wide wheel like an expert percussionist. The buzzing engine singing to his every command as he adeptly snaked in his easy meander along the serpentine country road. Shadows darkened the taller avenues as the sun fell lower toward its lingering horizon kiss, the headlights threw an ineffectual yellow light before him. With the flick of a switch the perfectly aligned bumper mounted spotlights threw out super-trouper beams to light this rally quick parade. This artificial dawn an ample antidote to the dying sun. Simon understeered through several bends as he snatched glimpses of a magnificent sunset, a beauty to which there was no competition. As the Mini’s wide eyes keenly sought the way the taller trees became an eerie presence in the growing twilight, swooping and bending as hungry hunters, sometimes encouraging progress, other times swinging as ominous warning.

Reluctant to draw attention as he neared the village of his destination he slowed to a safer pace, aware he was still under the influence of his lunchtime libation. Killing his spotlights, he limped quietly into the loudly gravelled carpark of the Cock & Bull public house. A popular haunt, not only attracting a local clientele but drinkers such as he from the surrounding area. Simon normally shied away from crowds, but pubs were a definite exception. Firstly, and with a head start, he’d soon consume enough alcohol to feel comfortable. Secondly, he’d lose himself in the general throng, avoiding being the lonely person sitting in the corner sipping

warm beer, reluctant to catwalk to the bar as a spotlight of activity. Initially he’d remain at the bar anyway, to compose himself and surreptitiously scan the room for that lucky girl.

With its hot engine creaking in complaint, Simon exited his car after parking inconspicuously neatly and out of the way. He then made his way toward his nemesis. The colossal iron studded oak entrance door. He gave a backward glance to his faithful Mini, almost turning back as a flood of sorrow blighted his buoyant mood. She sat in the darkening corner as glowing metaphor, losing her gleam in the falling light, small and vulnerable away from the other larger, newer cars. Pulled back towards the door, a nervous anticipation arose, what delights awaited him beyond the magic portal? Maybe new friends, a new girl? Eager for his sparkling company or sullen charm. The ancient, gently swinging Cock & Bull sign mocked in its slow squeak as he reached out to tackle the gnarly door:

Brazen hair swings exaggeration to wild horizon/Blowing a vision to keep wide eyes on/Glowing with angel dust in a warm exotic breeze/A will to weaken every muscle at the knees/Where a sign of hope will creak a skeleton tease/Bending to the fever of a colour dyed disease/No need for the grovelling pleas of before/Dolphin sleek in the gliding bathe of a tender cure/Embraced by the allure of caressed apology/Soft sincerity insincerely spoken/Pouting in bubbled silence for forgiveness/Baiting the sharks in relentless chase/For a secret symbol carried as token/Reasons given to the flights of astrology/Without empathy compassion fades into blackness/Faintly written where no attention can grace/Living with a belief in seduction’s whore/Whispers netted in the heated pause of space/Drawn again to the high imagined face/Pretending to be cosy in the fickle core/Claiming fear in a buzzing hive/Penning prayers in death to be alive/Honey sweetened to sugar redress/Combing the curtain to bow and confess/Static knots to fall as silk/Fed the kindness of human milk/Overtly painted to be inkless and opaque/Startled by a scold rebuke for heaven’s sake/The flight of a crowd companion wrapped in one cape/Crossing lines as a giant to cut red tape/Truth be told where the above confessed/Too late in the hurried pursuit of a lie/Sinking to nestle in the comforting nest/A million questions in the wonder why/Bursting as butterfly from a nectar gloop of treacled cocoon/Performance across the wobble of scene in a trick of distraction/Applause to a brand-new and fatal damn attraction/Wonkier than the rest in this fucked-up contraption/The world spinning out and lost in action/Unique entertainment raised to podium glory/Playing forgotten myth to no man on the moon/Fresh decoration adored as white smiles glisten/Universe expanding for no one to listen/Comet ice falls to lacquer the gloss of fame/Closer inspection reveals flakes in the paints of shame/Each new history writing a different story/With varnish dulled longer shadows loom large/Pouting doubters crowing louder as they charge.

Smack! Simon had focused too late on a desperate recollection of the knack in opening the confounding door, bundling face first into the stubborn oak edifice as it refused to open. Still clinging to the brass handle, he glanced around in fear of witnesses to this turn of slapstick. Rubbing his nose back into place, he twisted, lifted, pulled then pushed, the correct sequential trick he’d learnt from bitter experience. Utilising and bruising his knee in the final push element he flew into the bar with unintended gusto, trailing the mountainous door as it flew inward with zero resistance. Still gripping the handle and hopping on one leg, the embarrassed Simon acted bewildered as it slammed rowdily into the wall beyond. The violent thud seeming to echo for an excruciating age.

‘That’s the way to do it!’ He thought to himself as he slouched in awkward apology, staring at the worn carpet as he entered, the crimson red flashes matching his face. Despite the music and chatter inside, several people shouted a coordinated, ‘COME IN!’. Simon covered his humiliation by turning his back on the crowd and carefully closing the sardonic door, for a moment considering escape, until he sensed the brief comedic interlude had faded from attention. Simon sidled his way to the bar as anonymously as possible, and eventually attracted a barmaid’s attention, sure he was safe from more ridicule as the entrance could not be seen from behind the counter.

‘You don’t need to knock before coming in mate.’ She smirked.

‘Pint of lager please, and some dry roast nuts.’ All he could muster in response, pointing to his preferred pump, closed to further piss-taking. Sensing his mood, she commented no more and silently passed him his drink and change, unable to control her giggles. Simon couldn’t help but laugh too, sensing she was itching to make a wisecrack as she passed him his nuts. Then she was gone.

Gauging it safe to do so he turned to the room. With no seats available, not even in a quiet corner, he found sanctuary against a pillar near the centre of the room. Anonymous in the volume of chatter, music and smoke, Simon hoped he’d feel less conspicuous, but paranoia burned at his back. Nervously he gulped and within five minutes he’d drained the chilly beverage, subtly disguising the ensuing fizzy burps. Too soon to return to the bar he nibbled the tangy peanuts as he sipped from his empty glass. He felt vulnerable, usually preferring to observe a room from the periphery. Standing made it harder to relax, every raised voice, blow of smoke, accidental catch of the eye, added to his sober discomfort.

Then the alcohol high was reignited. His posture straightened, head lifted, chest expanded, and he began to care less about casual attention. Taking advantage of this welling confidence he gently pushed his way through the crowd, large for a Sunday, aiming for the barman serving at the other end. The bartenders showed no recognition of Simon, even though this was one of his ‘locals’. He envied those who threw easy banter like confetti, had their own personalised ale tankards hanging in pride of place among the optics. While he was a stranger every time he entered. The same regulars carried their own darts and pool cues, and although they rarely seemed to play, when they did, they were always brilliant. Why had no one asked him to play darts, skittles, pool or even dominoes? Be part of the team? Then again, would he really want to? Perhaps the barmaid’s sarcasm had been a test, a way in? Maybe that was the banal extent of their much-envied easy banter? Perhaps he was better off hiding in the corner?

‘Your drink and change sir.’ The barman interrupted this internal conversation.

‘Thanks.’ Replied Simon, as the man dropped the change into his hands without contact, slopping some of the precious liquid onto the bar as he did so. Simon didn’t complain.

Simon turned his back on the barman, simultaneously gulping from his short measure, leaning back to face the room. If the bar had been busy he would have moved away, but the customers were surprisingly few at this end. It was generally blokes approaching and they preferred to be served by the female attendant. Sarcastic she may have been, but she was reasonably attractive in her quintessentially stereotypical busty-barmaid guise. He didn’t want to wander too far, he’d need another drink soon, his glass already two-thirds gone.

A few drinks later but still apparently a ‘sir’, he was still propping up the bar staring silently into the crowd. He’d tipped over the euphoric stage and was beginning to lose the rosy tint glow of the earlier afternoon, now viewing things through morose eyes. Another of his favourite pastimes. The room in front of him on the other hand was a contradictory scene of merriment, exaggerated laughter, and more white toothed smiles than he could count. Played out to the strains of the tired jukebox, losing the battle in the volume stakes, but a pleasing backdrop of sound, nevertheless. The crowd drowning melody drove along with the cackle of voices, giving the illusion of a happy rhythm that didn’t exist. In this predictable boozy ambush of self-pity, he envied them all:

The loathe of being raises its surreptitious periscope/To sharpen the focus of malicious intent/Easily breaking the gentle swell without sound or invitation/No lazy grope hellish bent to crush salvation/Into the murky haven its foolish dwellers know so well/Only the brave flex their muscles of understanding/Can rip the secrets to a thunderous drumbeat/Rhythmic and silent in the sweat of a buried cocoon/Membrane glimpses blood red pinked/Once black and white inked/The fountain a long time empty/Rolling from the strewn rock repetition playing out to relentless defeat/Staying deaf to the chorus with ears cupped against the thump of heart/Accelerating harmony regardless of a broken skin the slick sticks cheat/Wireless pulses dancing in the shocked conductor climbing fresh chart/The unseated orchestra soars rampant from the silted pit/Thrashing into life and firing at will their cannons of shit/Losing bass in treble frustration/As to awful wonder the mind finds pause/Random release loosed to turn the screw of torpedo terror/To smother disorder with polite applause/Fired notes loaded in error/All in a worthy cause/The finest drizzle of welcome rain falls into the sea abyss/Waterfalls to hiss on heat/Making a river of the street/As the blanket smothers thick and cold/Killing the hideous tunes of old/Bringing peace to cosy depths/Safety in locker sleep/Blown bubbles thrown in search of sky escape/Garbled the refracted word/Sorry we misheard/The vulnerable prepare for attack/As new viewed delusion saves/From a foe with no need of defence/Caught in the engine of hate/Eyes open to the flash too late/The urge to swim in the surge of waves/Gasping air with each frothing shift/Foaming at the mouth as spit/Folding into curls with the power of hydraulic lift/Until the leak and drop and hit/Humiliation paraded too intense/Rage nowhere to run for a better day will come/Too casual as tears dissolve into the illusion of freedom/Steamed off by the sun/Balling all contradiction into a solid squall of gas/Impossible dreams paralyse the spy with shame/Burning evidence forming as smoke/Forgive intrusion/Pardon the gallows joke/Gallant on death machines to save love from war/Cruising above the crush of a million bottled messages/Jaded and unread/Let us foil flimsy logic/Sink in the cushion with me/Stitching a symbol of peace as we grow grey/All aboard to surrender/Rolled as rocks on the seabed/Water as silk and sand clouding as breath today.

Determined to break the grip of melancholy, Simon amused himself with a closer survey of the lively room. The Cock & Bull was larger than most quaint country pubs, essentially several rooms punched into one, the lengthy bar bridging them all. It had the requisite open fireplace, at least two in fact, surrounded by the obligatory horse brasses. The lower walls were dark wood panelled while the tops were heavily flocked with a busy wallpaper. The exaggerated paisley design relieved in places by the hanging of old pictures, maps and sepia photos, most with some connection to the pub. Much of this memorabilia related to canals; the Cock & Bull being set on the banks of one. At some point in history being a warehouse for off-loading barges, the vaulted cellars still in use today, now ideal for storing the beers. Windowless and discreet, they were also used for late-night lock-ins. Simon had never been invited.

Scanning from his present viewpoint, there was snug seating around the edge of the room, some alcoves cosily divided off. Small tables of varying designs littered the room, but it was the people that interested Simon the most. These first observations made without the hindrance of self-conscience, thanks to the inhibition dissolving alcohol. He still used several disguises though. Peeking over, or even through his glass. Staring blankly as if lost in daydream, which wasn’t too much of a stretch. His favourite, pretending to look for someone he knew or was meeting, reinforced with annoyed glances at his watch.

In front of him was a table of two attractive girls, accompanied by two equally pretty guys. The two assumed boyfriends were engrossed in a heated debate concerning football, as usual taking this ridiculous game too seriously. Wild hand gestures thrown in dangerous proximity to each other’s face. The girls were also involved in a battle to out-talk each other on the most random of topics. A lot of talking, very little listening, unless you included the enthralled Simon in the debate. He openly laughed a couple of times at this odd charade, as volume, speed and pitch rose and fell in dominance or defeat in a frantic verbal race to an invisible finish line.

It