It's been a year in the making, involved a lot of looking up and serves very little point.
Yet here it is,the first draft of...

Lampbulb moments

As always,

thank you for stopping by

Life's right hook

Life is very good at jabbing you, deep, in the kidneys.
You can attempt to prepare yourself, glance the blow, if you see it coming.
But when it's out of the blue, it pops your vision out of sync and after the numbness subsides, you feel the pain of your insides being twisted out of shape.
You recover from these jabs in time, although never fully.
There's always a scar, an un-suppressible memory, for good or for worse.


Life can be beautiful, but occasionally, it can be a right bitch.

The awakening of Flynigan Chyn

Image by Andy W Clift

A young boy sat high up in a tree not far from camp. Confident he was not followed he examined his ill gotten gains. Twirling a pocket watch through his fingers, the silver and gold gilding sparkled in the shards of moonlight that broke through the canopy. The clan rarely met with town folk these days through fear of men getting drafted into the ‘great war’, and stealing from his own people was becoming less and less of a challenge.

Still, ever since his magpie-like vice was discovered by his parents (in hindsight, under his bunk was not the best place to hide his loot) the sting of his father’s belt and the shame of having to return his prizes to their owners, meant that he was trusted by no-one and rarely left alone. Rather than deter him however, he accepted the greater challenge of not only swiping a valuable, but to then return it before suspicion led folk to be calling at his Pa's caravan door.

Whilst contemplating his many mini victories, the watch suddenly became weightless. He starred wide eyed as it hovered just above his hand, then almost fell off his branch as it rose past his face and high up into the branches. The watch travelled towards an impossibly dark patch high in the canopy. Before any sense could be made of it, a shard of moonlight revealed a large pale hand that reached out to take possession of the time piece. Although fear had him frozen to his perch, he was in awe of the mysterious figure that had managed to stay hidden from him all that time.

"My dear Flynigan, what do you think the punishment would be if Rufeos knew you had his great grandfather’s watch? A watch that I gifted to his family no less, for the kindness they have always shown me"

Flyn's mind raced, for so few words spoken, they chilled him to the bone. If the man's coarse emotionless voice was not unnerving enough, the stranger knew his clan’s leader, claimed to be over a hundred years old and most terrifying of all, knew who Flyn was. If he could have moved, he would have been down the tree and sprinting till his lungs caught fire, yet a part of him knew that running would have done him no good. To his surprise, he heard himself whisper, "I was going to give it back," submissively, with just a pang of rebellion.

"Yes Flynigan you shall. Master your skills, learn from the animals, the owl and the fox can teach you much of deception and cunning. Next we meet we shall talk of items of true desire, not mere trinkets. Although, they may take you more than one lifetime to discover, if you are willing to make that sacrifice...."

With that, the dark shape of the man seemed to thin out and moonlight was again visible through the leaves, the pocket watch dropped from the heights, and only Flyn’s honed reactions led his hand to grasp it out of the air. He sat for some time trying to remember every detail of what just happened, burning every part to memory. Eventually the morning dew started to chill him, so he made his way back to his bunk with the knowledge that his chores would have him up again in no time. On that short walk back he thought to himself, 'If I managed to steal from a man like that, then I'd know I was the best'...

••••

Fourteen years pass since the night spoke to him.
With Germany's second conquest denied, conscription fears are no more.
Hearts are filled and crushed by teen spirits.
He avoids his peers, unless cards are on the table.
A Mother, lost to sickness.
The night comforts him.
He grows and deepens.
A boy becomes a man.

A sudden lurch of the caravan woke Flyn as it came to a standstill. They had stopped outside the old town of Gissing, mostly built from locally cut stone which is uniquely chestnut in colour. Through the window he could see it glow in the midday sun like hot coals, and commotion outside meant others had already started unpacking. Stepping out of the wagon his father called out "I hope nothing fell on that head of yours son" There was no mirth in his voice, he hadn't even looked over from adjusting the horses harness. It has been some years since they had seen eye to eye, so he ignored the old man to get on with the chores of readying camp.

As the night wrapped its cloak around the land, Flyn slunk off to practice with his throwing blades (there was no better way to snipe a pheasant out of the air, without attracting attention from game keepers). He found a stump not far from the camp and readied himself; in the distance Old Gissing was now an imposing canopy of turrets and chimneys.

Suddenly a deep steady voice broke the near silence:

"You've come a long way Flynigan Chyn. You impress me. Now I have a challenge for you, although if you accept, failure or success will change your life forever"

Fourteen years since he'd heard that voice, and in that time he'd learnt all the sights and sounds of the night. He could pick out a doormouse hiding in fallen leaves and hear an owl swoop as it dove for its prey. Yet the man was somehow behind him, and he'd heard or seen nothing. Fear and a personal frustration led him to consider the blade in his hand, yet his resolve was strong, and with a deep breath he was calmed. Turning to face the man he had begun to think of as a figment of his imagination, he said "I'm listening..."

••••

Branches whipped Flyn's face as he sped through the undergrowth, legs burning, heart pounding, sweat mixing with his blood soaked clothes. The challenge seemed simple enough: "I want you to break into the oldest house in Gissing and steal a book. It should be easy to spot. It will no doubt have it's own pedastal with a wolf’s head branded into the cover." In spite of his determination his pace was slowing, with each forced stride he could hear the squelch of blood that was pooling in his boots. If he lived long enough to see the stranger again, he'd definitely be giving his blades another consideration.

Everything was going so well, the house was easy enough to find, at night the bricks were rust red and turrets dominated its peaks. He noticed that the windows were shuttered from the inside, a security feature that wasn't mirrored in the doors locks, which were old and laughably easy to pick. With little noise he entered into a grand hallway, which led to a reception area twinned either side by opposing staircases. The air had a chill to it suggesting the inhabitants were either out, or snug in bed; not sure of which, he proceeded cautiously.

Concentrating on the ground floor he systematically scouted the rooms. A waiting room and water closet were quickly passed, but a study caught his attention. The teak panelled walls consumed what little light there was, yet its clutter free layout made it easy to traverse. Confident he was currently alone, he sparked his Zippo to life, pushing back the darkness with its flickering warm glow. Although here for a book, the stranger didn't say not to help himself to things opportune. The study contained two facing high backed chairs, poised between an ornate chess table, and a large writing desk crowned by a green leather swivel chair. As with the other rooms, heavy wooden shutters obscured the windows, but impossible to miss was the large painting depicting an gruesome battle that dominated the room, beautifully haunting in its detail, its brass plaque titled it 'The battle of Quatre Bras'. At the writing desk the drawers bared some fruit, a silver letter opener, a gold nib fountain pen and  a well crafted cigarillo case, all items that could fetch him good coin. Before leaving the room, a framed photograph sitting upon the desk caught his eye. It captured a small group of fresh faced soldiers ready to go over the trenches, at what he guessed was late dusk. Not only was the willingness in their eyes strange, one of the men bore an uncanny resemblance to a foot soldier in the painting. "This family must be gluttons for punishment"

The kitchen and pantry held little of note. “Too little” Flyn decided. With no fresh food to speak of and the chill that filled the house, he concluded the occupiers must be out of town. This thought annoyed him to distraction. How could he prove his skills as a thief if there was no challenge involved? Somewhat disheartened, he continued his search for the library, taking less care with where he placed his feet, secretly hoping that his deliberate disregard would summon them home and make for an interesting night again.

The library was impressive, occupying a rear quarter of the house and spanning both floors. A spiral cast iron staircase to the left of the entrance led up to where a brass railed walkway gave access to the second tier of books. Fairly confident the shutters were capable of keeping light from spilling outside (added to the flickering from his Zippo giving him eye strain) he sought out the light switch. As the gloom was beaten back by many evenly spaced lanterns, the grandeur of the room settled on him. Every available wall space was filled by books of all sizes. Not coming from a family of readers he found it hard to imagine that this many books existed at all. The fruity, almond-like musk that accompanied them told him that many were old, and for the first time he considered the wealth of knowledge that must be contained within such pages. But it was back to business when his eyes landed on five plinths at the far side of the room.The plinths were all of simple and solid construction and each held a book. As expected one had a wolf’s head branded into the cover. On the others were a flower, a mirror, a mask and a sceptre. He took his prize and slid it into a spacious pocket within his coat and out of habit, placed a book of similar size on the plinth so that the theft would not be obvious.

With the chill now finding its way through his clothes and his instinct to not stay in one place for too long, he shut off the lights and made his way back through the house. He felt a little smug; the stranger obviously expected the building to be occupied, so his swift return would add merit to is abilities - he needn’t tell him the truth. As he walked across the hallway, the exit in sight, he stilled as the sound of a door closing above and behind him reached his ears.

"Ahh, good. A trespasser, I was feeling a little peckish"

Not sure of the words he heard but aware that he'd been caught, he spun to face their owner, hands reaching for his belt knives.

"Halt!"

As he turned to face the voice his body seized up, muscles tensing, no longer obeying his actions. Frustration flashed through him as his fingers graced the blades, yet all he could do was stare at the man, poised like a stuffed predator, fear beginning to consume him.

The man was younger than his voice let on, well dressed, confident. Flyn recognised the family features as he walked casually down the stairs. Whilst fear and confusion set about to destroy him, Flyn's survival instinct concentrated on getting his fingers moving again.

Half way down the flight, the man stopped and spread his arms

"I am truly grateful you stopped by. It's been many days since I replenished myself. I get lost in my work you see... of course you don't, and it's something you'll never have to worry about"

Flyn, still frozen, became aflame with pain as his skin tore itself apart, his clothes dampened before he witnessed blood float away from his body. A silent scream filled his mental prison as he fought with all his will to break free. In moments the air was full of scarlet, a steady flow of plasma making its way to a new host. The figure, arms still outstretched, seemed to absorb the blood as it touched him, the consequence of which left a vision of ecstasy on the man’s face, a vision that turned Flyn's stomach. His knuckles went white as he finally gripped the blade handles...

...the vampire picked himself up, pulling a blade from his eye socket as he did, bone, blood and pulp running down his cheek. His good eye showed him the other knife buried in his chest, ruining an expensive shirt. Distracted by the pleasures of feeding he had underestimated the resolve of the human, and looking at the blood now covering the stairs and floor, he doubted he'd ever see him again. A shame, best liquor he'd tasted in decades.

Legs burning, heart pounding, sweat mixing with his blood soaked clothes. In spite of his determination his pace slowed until unable to hold his own weight any longer. He collapsed in a copse that edged a farmer’s field just a mile off the gypsy camp, just a mile, yet no longer could he continue. His body now numb to the pain, he propped himself up on the fourth attempt, not wanting to die with his face in the dirt. Through his staggered breathing he managed a chuckle; of all the places to die, the last thing he’d smell was cabbages.

“You’re an unusual man Flynigan. Death sharpens his scythe before you, yet you smile at it’s edge.” The stranger stepped into view. As he looked down at the torn and broken human he felt an echo of pity for him. He knelt and reached into Flyn’s coat to retrieve the book. Flyn didn’t resist, he could hardly see let alone put up a fight, the stranger was right, the Grim Reaper was close.

The man caressed the cover of the book, a quiet intensity lining his words
“This is a true item of desire Flynigan. The writings within this tome will allow me to master the Gangrels gifts, no longer will their claws keep me from putting them in their place. Years I have been waiting for this, that paranoid sorcerer had so many wards protecting his haven, that a vampire couldn't get within twenty feet of it, but he never expected a human to be brazen enough to steal from him. Tell me Flynigan, would you like to live in my world or shall I let you depart in peace?”

Eyes closed, Flyn’s imagination was able to take charge. Before him, the reaper stood a foot taller than he, and in the distance he thought he could make out his mother, waiting patiently within the cabbage field. Soon they would be together again, and he was unsure of how he felt about this. Mention of the sorcerer though, brought him back to the now, mind suddenly lucid, fuelled by a final burst of adrenalin. Eyes wide, the stranger came into focus, his face dressed with either pity or amusement. But that didn’t matter to Flyn, if there was an out, he’d take it, besides:

“I think I may have dropped my blades in that house, I’d love to get them back”

Sandman - you're a jerk...

The past couple of nights have been intense, dreams that have had me waking constantly, eye's wide open. I'd calm myself and push the images away, before unwillingly diving back in where I left off upon closing my lids.

Two nights ago I dreamt I was living in the age of Zombies. To survive, the humans had joined forces and the country was full of tribe like pockets of survivors, each thinking they were the only humans left alive. In true post apocalyptic style they hung onto the past in a distorted fashion, they thought department stores where museums, depicting a glorious past where humans used a multitude of wondrous devices, most of which had dark rope coming out of them that ended in a strange metal claw. Throughout the dream we where attacked by Zombies on numerous occasions, each time losing a member of our tribe, no matter how many of the beasts we beheaded. There was never a sense of victory, hope was stretched thin, yet the desire to survive was strong. I awoke proud to be a survivor, yet quite depressed.

Last night had a different spin. No Zombies this time, but I wasn't particularly fond of this one either as I awoke drained.

I lived far from 'the city', the town had a 5 shop high street, a picnic park and a lake that used to be chalk pit. A place that tourists used to stop by to enjoy some fishing or a peaceful barbeque. But the new interstate meant people didn't pass by as much any more.

Someone had gone missing in the town, I local person we all liked. The police were moving from door to door; the usual enquiry stuff. As I went to answer my door, I noticed the missing persons jacket on the coat hook; he hadn't been here in months. The front door had a mottled glass panel so the officer could see I was standing there. Confused and feeling strangely guilty, I unwillingly opened the door that thankfully hid the coat rack. Mumbling through the officers questions, he gave me a thoughtful look before heading on. My back now damp with worry, I turned my attention to the jacket. Apart from it  being where it shouldn't, it looked quite ordinary. A search of the pockets only turned out a yellowing page torn from a book. Along the border of the page was the word, L I N T in a heavy font with each letter looking individually punched. Although its meaning was lost to me, the irony was not.

As the dream continued various other items of the missing man turned up in my possession. His truck keys in my writing desk, work boots in the wardrobe, even his favourite beers in the fridge. It accumulated so quickly, that going to the police soon became a closed door, through fear of being a suspect. Someone was out to set me up, they could get in my house with ease and knew my routines. I figured it was someone I knew so I couldn't ask for help, I was alone and they knew it.

A second torn page appeared, stuck to my bathroom mirror using the condensation from the shower I was having, my remaining nerves fled when I saw it, I felt myself loosing hope. Knowing they were so close whilst I was completely vulnerable was crushing. I longed for a confrontation, one that I somehow knew I wouldn't fair well from; I didn't care though, I just wanted it over. Like the first scrap, letters were punched into the border, H O U P, again I struggled to find any meaning in it.

More notes appeared along with various other possessions, one in my wallet, another in my trouser pocket. More letters stamped into them - L Y C A and S L U E - but I couldn't figure out the puzzle, if it even was a puzzle.

Towards the end of my dream, I came downstairs to find a half drunk hot coffee on the kitchen side and the back door wide open. Running to the door I closed and bolted it, only realising as I did so that I may have just lock myself in with him. As my mind rushed, doors start slamming loudly on the other side of the house, my legs gave way, I slid to the floor. Fear and exhaustion fought amongst themselves in their desire to possess me. As a last ditch effort I took out the scraps of paper and lay them out before me, desperate to find a way out of this, all the time wishing I was better at anagrams - I hate anagrams - trying various combinations, I had to get this right, with each slammed door closer than the last, my fingers shook, yet through the frantic shuffling of letters something finally came through that seemed to make sense, yet made no sense at all - THE LUPIN CALLS YOU - I laughed hysterically at what I had made, as whether I was right or wrong, it wasn't going to end well. As the door in front of me opened, I woke up

It all started with chest pains...

Begrudgingly I creaked open my eyes and looked down, it was early - too early. Yet feeble light still managed to punch it's way through the blinds, caressing my chest with enough luminance to highlight the cause of my non-sleeping state. A hole.

A gapping chasm that sunk impossibly deep was seated in my upper torso - well that certainly explained the sickening pain I was in - but being what I would consider a regular guy, not seeing my chest jungle was decidedly difficult for the grey matter to be dealing with, especially at this hour. Rather than make sense of the situation, the more imaginative parts of my brain mustered up the sounds of fast moving water coming up from the depths, with the occasional squark from what I could only assume, I thought an eagle sounded like - having never heard an eagle before it was kind of a cross between a Parrot and a Sparrow - I appreciated the effort it had gone to, and with some success the relaxing fictional sounds, were taking the focus away from the torturous pain.

I flopped my head back onto the pillow and took decisive action, I chose to ignore it. Well that was the plan, but as it turned out the adventurous-imaginative parts of the brain wanted to explore the chasm. So after some futile resisting, I found myself fully kitted out in climbing gear, descending the cliff face that was lining my chest cavity - surreal only just starts explaining the state of events I found myself in - I leaned back on the zip cord which was secured somewhere out of sight, and dared to look down. To my surprise I could see the rapids some way down, breaking in angry foam on the occasional boulder, and looking about, the scraggy cliffs were far from barren with many shrubs taking hold in the cracks, even the odd ambitious tree was trying to make some sort of life for its self. I was taken aback, it was quite lovely here, I've always loved a good outdoor adventure and this was really lifting my spirits. I looked up expecting to be graced by a rich blue sky and a warming sun, though it seemed my fantasy had a sense of grounding intact, as I instead laid eyes on my ceiling fan, complete with the cobweb strung between two of its blades.

As I frowned at the cobweb my footing gave way, the cord quickly snapped taught with a twang so I didn't fall far, but I was winded by the sudden jolt, confused, my face squished against the wall, I had a bad feeling. The ground started shaking violently, debris falling past me, each piece larger than the last, I was scrambling to find some fresh footholds, hand grips, a twig, anything! Then it dawned on me - fantasy, my fantasy - with very little effort I left the scene of impending destruction and open my real eyes. Back in bed, still too early, still a cobweb on the ceiling fan - I really must do something about that - the chest pain had gone though, so with some hopefulness I looked down. My hairy jungle was back, it's curly abundant foliage no longer marred by the strangeness that was the hole. I needed to clear my head, the mornings experience had been vivid, I could still feel the remnants of pain in my ribs and it had left me feeling queasy. I rested up onto my elbows and sighed. Regardless of whether I imagined the chasm or not, there was quite clearly a whirlpool where I would usually expect to see my belly.

The water seemed relatively calm as it slowly swirled, none of which was sloshing over the sides onto the bed - which was nice - I stared at it a moment before deciding to stick my finger in it - I should have known better, I've seen curiosity get the better of my cat many times - as the tip broke the surface three things happened. Firstly I was surprised by how warm it was. Secondly I noticed I had made a wave that intensified as it rippled out. And Third? Nausea sucker punched me, knocking me back onto both elbows, I wasn't sure which way I was going to blow, but something was coming and fast! The whirlpool was fierce now, it's speed had increased with violent waves crashing about with malice, out of nowhere clouds started forming above the vortex, as the storm intensified the clouds grew, darkening and crackling in a truly epic fashion - Up till now I had considered myself a patient recipient of a morning of abnormalities, but Panic was now dutifully stepping up to take the reigns, I didn't argue -

Panic was just about to introduce tears as the storm reached it's pinnacle, rapt, yet feeling somewhat tortured, I watched as the clouds lit from within, then as one, unleashed a mighty sliver of lighting into the vortex. The accompanying thunder was so forceful it knocked me flat. In my prone, slightly blinded state, I witnessed the duvet swirl into the air and off to the side, the blinds rattle against the windows and the cobweb bluster about yet hold fast.

The calm that followed was almost instant, sitting up I seemed to be my normal self again, yet Panic was still in charge and didn't release the reigns unit a frantic search of my person revealed no more 'surprises'. Apart from being a bit achy, I felt great, fantastic even! I was considering starting my day before remembering how ridiculously early it was, I rarely get a lie in as it is, so I picked up the duvet, jumped into bed and got cosy again, the memory of recent activities already fading fast. As I dosed off, I promised myself, I'd never eat beans before bed again.

Earliest memory of making words...

I like to rummage around in my memory, it's always so wonderfully elusive. Today whilst I trundled through memories flora, I stumbled upon the earliest memory I have of forming words. I was 4 and the evening was dark, suggesting a winter in full anti-bloom. The living room consisted of just my mother and myself sitting by an open fire. Before me was an old tobacco tin filled with white cardboard squares, each with an individual letter stamped upon it. Next to that was my homework book, about the size of a pocket diary, it had a simple blue card cover with 4 printed black lines, on which I my teacher had written my name and class details. The aim of the homework was simple, using the tin of many letters, all we had to do is create short sentences,  then write them into the book. A task, that from the look of the tins letters, many generations had done before me.

I did my best to make words out of the letters, then I arranged them in what I thought could pass as a sentence - I'm not sure what the sentence was, but I'm pretty sure a cat was involved - I looked up at Mum to see if was doing alright and saw she was looking down at my simple construction with sadness in her eyes. Being a loving boy of mischief, I was familiar with Mums angry or disproving frowns, and I knew her sadness was not aimed at me. Not understanding the situation I asked what was wrong, and as if the sadness was never there, her eyes smiled again as she suggested we put the homework away and watch tv on the sofa. Homework could wait until Dad was home, I wasn't going to argue with that!

What I never found out until many years later, was that she was not a very confident speller and didn't want my teachers to think she was a bad Mother, by sending me in with poor homework. She knows now that she is not as bad as she always thought she was, and I really didn't mind at all, because what she lacked in literary confidence, she more than made up for in love and encouragement.

As it turned out, Dad was rarely home early enough to help me with my homework so a tv addiction was nurtured into fruition, and with so many cool cartoons and Carry On films now running around my skull, I'm very grateful indeed. Even if I do still make the occasional seplling error :)

Frequently wandering about my mind...

Wandering - as I do so frequently - about my mind, I noticed how much of it was empty.

Really? Why so surprised? - I hear you ask

Ha ha - I reply

But this was a different kind of empty. Not the usual looking out the window empty, but a void, something was missing. I was already in a roaming mood, so I decided to wander some more, see if I could find any clues.

I found the usual hot spots still in-tacked, the computer game hub, the gadget lust center and the mammary gland appreciation gallery. But the void seemed important, I could feel its emptiness scratches at the edges yet was clueless as to what it could be.

I roamed some more - deeper this time - I see places that I have not visited for a while, not all good, but most bring a smile to my face. I see people and places from my past, they are dull and fuzzy as they bide their time in comfy memory pods, just waiting on the appropriate trigger to make them sparkle again. I love this place, so many pods, cushioning my life, a testament to my journey.

Still clueless, I went back to the present to give the void a long hard stare. It made me uncomfortable, all that nothing. A few years ago I would have turned away, but I've changed a little along the way, I'd say my life has more focus now. Instead of letting the void worry me, I decided on filling it up. Just think, all that space to create new comfy memory pods in! I don't know what the future holds, but if I'm going to get close to filling this thing, I'm certainly going to make the most of it.

The Catholic truth regarding: Garbage Pail Kids

Dedicated to Mr Edwards


The year is 1986, I'm 8 years old. Pre parents splitting, pre exams, pre crazy hormones, pre getting distracted by girls, pre spots, pre... just about anything complicated. Life was all cartoons, running, hiding, toys, climbing and general young boy tomfoolery.

My school, St Thomas', was run by Sister Mary. A tall efficient silver haired woman with dark eyebrows. She always wore her veil, a white collared dark blue dress tapered at the waist with a belt, white socks that went above her knees and sandals. It was obvious to us all how passionate she was about her role, by the volume of spittle that graced the front row of children at each mornings prayer. But today was different. As Sister Mary marched the line giving thanks to the day - the usual wave of discretely wiped faces following her wake - there seemed little cheer in her voice and the usually present, slightly foamed, smile that accompanied each pause between verses, look horribly forced. Something was bothering the Sister, and I wasn't the only kid that was getting anxious - a feeling that my youth had little dealings with - So put out was the Sister by her burdening thoughts, that before sitting down, stern lipped and rigid, she declared - 'Mr Edwards has a VERY important announcement to make'.

Mr Edwards is the only male representative in the school, and because of such, his words seemed to carried some weight. Smartly dressed in his tweed suit, Brylcreem hair and (of course) brown sandals, he took center stage. His dark, rodent like, eyes swept the room whilst a hand reached inside his jacket. He pulled out a small object and held it high, saying "Let me tell you the truth behind these, Garbage Pail Kid, stickers! It has been brought to my attention that some of you have been collecting these vile things with the view that they are amusing. I can tell you that these are no harmless collectables and that corruption is fueled by the sale of every packet! Did you know that these stickers are made by children your own age, forced into work with little to eat or drink? - wide eyed, as one we shake our heads - Forced to work 12 hours a day by a Colombian drug baron, as rats run around their bare feet! - no way! - Thats right, with every packet you buy, you are directly pushing children into labor to work in filthy sweat shops, whilst the drug baron makes enough money to grow even more drugs! - I wasn't catching everything he was saying, but it sure did sound bad, and I've never seen Mr Edwards look so mad before - These Garbage Pail Kid Stickers are far from harmless fun, they represent a world as sick and frightening as the images they portray! Now I want you to think very carefully about what I've told you, I do not want to see these stickers in this school ever again! Everybody, lets say a prayer for those poor children working in Columbia" We were shocked, some of the younger children near the front were crying. I couldn't believe it, they were just packets of funny cards with a stick of gum. With my head bent in prayer my mind was spinning, the gum never tasted right - then realisation sank in - the gum had drugs in it! 

Credit is due to the school, at 8 I had no real concept of what drugs were, but I knew they were bad, and I felt terrible. Needless to say I went home and told my Mum I didn't want any more Garbage Pail Kids, and I threw away all the gum sticks I had been saving. I didn't see the point of throwing away the stickers though, the harm was already done right? And boy was I glad I didn't. As the weeks went by whispers started to filter down from the older kids, apparently the stickers on sale in England, where okay. This was because the children that made the bad stickers spoke Columbian, so as long as ours were written in English, it was fine. But if they were in any other language, you should definitely, 100%, not buy them. My newly discovered conscious relaxed, and for a short time more, I was able to enjoy carefree tomfoolery* 

Before leaving St Thomas' for senior school, I was witness to another of Mr Edwards life lessons. In an attempt to control some of the more energetic kids he told them that, whilst jumping and running can be fun, "you should always be careful as you never know what could happen, in fact, you see that slight dip in the playing field? If too many people jump in that area, then the earth will crumble beneath you and you'll fall to the centre of the world and no one will ever find you'. By now - the ripe old age of 10 - I was fairly sure that this probably wasn't true, so whilst I didn't take care to avoid the dip in the playing field like some of the younger kids, I was certainly never seen jumping in it :)

I never did manage to collect all the stickers, but I recently managed to track down some low-res scans which I've collected together below. It was whilst looking through these that I remembered Mr Edwards. A memory that will always make me smile, and do not worry, I have already checked, all of these are in English (p.s if you want a higher res copy let me now)

Garbage Pail Kids Series 1- 15 

*which to a large extent has never really left me

The theatre is old, the air is suitably musty

Care has been taken to impress the beholder, the lush red seats maintain their comfort, with armrests ending in balled eagles claws empowering the experience. Thick velvet hugs the stage, tied back appropriately to frame a window that overlooks whichever world the projectionist chooses. As the lights dim with a crackle it's easy to imagine an Igor carefully pulling leavers, discharging ancient thermionic valves. White light splatters onto the canvas as the projector chugs into life, film winding it's way through the beast, whirls and chirps form from the mystic room above and behind. Flickers become images that steadily dance into motion, as rapture ensues, you are at the center of it all

Metropolis

Inner Boy and Outer Grey

This week I encountered a situation that should have scared my wits from me, yet I managed to navigate through it with deftly calm, and it left me a little exhilarated! I shall attempt to re-tell the tale swiftly as it was is not very engaging, it is more the fact that it happened at all, which made it exciting.

Last Wednesday I left for work as usual. Whilst fastening my helmet and pulling on my gloves, I noticed a few flakes of snow. The boy in me threw kindling on the hearth of my inner joy, whilst the my Grey cursed and grumbled. There were only a few flakes and none had settled, so I felt confident in riding to work. Yet not long after leaving the calm of my cul-de-sac the snow started falling a little heavier, only 10 minuets into my journey and I witnessed the grey dank streets, turn white and majestic. Ever since coming off of my bike last summer, I've been a cautious rider and being on two wheels when the road is becoming a blanket of white was making me a little nervous. To add to the distraction my visor was also receiving the tender embrace of the falling snow, making visibility tenuous at best. There was a roundabout ahead and I saw this as a prime opportunity to abandon my journey and head back home.

But being no stranger to English weather and knowing how fickle it can be, there was a good chance that this snow was just passing through and would be gone by the time I got to work. I paused at the roundabout and weighed up the odds, the roads were fairly busy with traffic so I didn't have long - Boy and Grey tugged over the matches, Grey thought he heard the door bell and whilst distracted, Boy deftly slipped the box out of Grey's grip and threw a match into the fireplace - fueled with excitement, I decided to give it a go.

The tires of the cars ahead ploughed through the blanket, giving me a choice of two narrow, yet clear, sections of road to navigate. With regular wipes of the visor from the back of my glove, I managed a continued steady journey, then quite suddenly the world disappeared. The snow was falling so thickly that no amount of wiping had an affect - Grey started to panic, Boy was oblivious. With my vision gone, sounds normally in the background found me. The strong steady patting on the flakes upon my helmet, the crunch of the blanket underneath car tires about me, the whistling of the wind and the satisfying pops of my engine - Grey told me to slow down a little - which I did - Boy wanted to play a game - which I obliged. The game was simple, before me lay out a series of pictures, all taken from the memory of my, usually straightforward, journey to work. All I had to do place myself within the pictures, based on how fast I thought I may be going - Grey was uncomfortably silent, he was finding trying to look unimpressed yet encouraging a difficult combination.

Wrapped within the game I was playing with Boy I had no thoughts of time passing, and was only drawn away as the patting of flakes about my head slowed. I gave my visor a hopeful wipe and vision was returned. I had traveled blind a few hundred meters and gave Boy a mental Hi five for being pretty much where I thought I was in the game. Within another half mile the snow had stopped and my journey continued hazard free. I didn't think about the 'what could have beens' and arrived at work with a smile on my face, somewhat in wonder that I had arrived at all - For the rest of the day Boy and Grey enjoyed company by the fire, Grey looked over at Boy and smiled, despite what he lets Boy think, he never likes saying I told you so...

When it all gets turned upside down...

It happens occasionally that the things we deem as normal no longer seem... right.

You want a lie in, yet the day starts with a beautiful sunrise with unnecessarily bright rays penetrating your curtains, reminding you even more that you are not sleeping. Frustrated, you stick a DVD on and your favorite comedian suddenly no longer seems funny - in fact he's a bit of a prick, and you can't believe you own 3 of his DVD's. To make it all worse, you cheer yourself up my going out for breakfast and order your favorite meal, only to find that upon delivery the sight of it makes you feel quite unwell.

Nothing satisfies, nothing motivates, nothing nothing fecking nothing... even getting angry about it doesn't feel right.

It's like being stuck in the body of another person, living someone else's life which is only similar to yours. A mobile goes off in your pocket, you take it out and check the name - they even have the same friends as you! - but they're not your friends, so you hang up. Whilst journeying to work you notice how dull your surroundings all look. Even sounds seem muted. It's an odd affair and you know it, yet you can't quite put a finger on why.

You get to work, it's early so no one's in a talky mood, which is good because you have nothing to say. Sitting at your desk you wonder about starting up the computer, nothing has made sense so far this morning, how will turning that on help? But you do it, and after a few minutes (vista) habit takes over and you start working.

At some point of the day a change occurs. It may be the monotony of working. It may have been the point when you jammed you finger in the drawer. It may have been a friendly face asking it you fancy a hot drink or it may be upon reading a truly lame joke in an email. But at some point colour returns to the world and finally your skin feels like your own.

You reflect upon how lucky it was that you were up to see the sunrise, you can't believe you didn't eat that tasty looking fry up, you remember to call Luke back, but now you think about it, maybe Bill Hicks really isn't as funny as you thought he was.

As colours and familiarity re-enter your life once more, looking back at the morning you can't but think - what was all that about?

Chavs that go bump in the night

Whilst happily dreaming of bats and bosoms (of course) I was woken by an out of place sound, as is common when you are lying down it's difficult to tell where sounds are coming from. Initially it sounded as if something was scuffling across my ceiling, but to my semi relief there was nothing to be seen.

I sat up to find a bearing on where the noises were coming from which led me to my bedroom window. I have quite large windows with a low sill giving me a sweeping view of the scene, I live in a slightly taller building on an Dickensian High street, my view is of a scattering of rooftops all butted up against each other and connecting to where I live, just below where I now stood. The night was fully formed and a heavy mist hung in the air, making the the broken formation shadows, darker still.

The noises where now clearer. Thumps, scratches, clatters, but I couldn't see a thing. The shadows just below me were the deepest and my imagination was not being kind. In one instance I heard something behind me, but I knew it wasn't real and I reclaimed my disposition to continued my ocular search, as one thing was clear, it was getting closer.

Then in true filmic styling, just meters from where I stood, a shadow pulled itself into view, swung its legs over the peak of a rooftop and sat there, perched like gargoyle. I stared at the shape for what seemed like an uncomfortably long time, before deciding on confrontation. I pushed open the window and called out in true bloke talk, using the manliest voice I could muster. The conversation went something like this:

- Oi mate! What the bloody'ell are you doing?!

- I'm just trying to find my way in

- What?

- I'm just trying to get inside... can I come through there? (gesturing to where I was)

- No mate (I couldn't help but chuckle at his audacity) What are you doing on the bloody roofs? (once you start talking blokeish you really can't stop)

- My mates are inside and I can't get in, I'm just looking for a way in thats all
(?)

- You know what, I'm pretty sure all the properties around here have doors

- What?

- Doors?

- What?
(sigh)

- I tell you what, you've got 20min to get off the roof or I'm gonna call the cops

- Please don't dob me in

- you best get moving then
(which he did)

By this time my 2am repartee woke the beautiful Ani (once asleep she doesn't rise easily, I'm still suprised a man shouting at a shadow stirred her at all) As she took in the scene I quickly filled her in on the course of events, to which she replied:

- You do realise you're naked?

- What?

As my mind slowly started to deal with this new bit of information in the distance we heard something that sounded a little like - Thudump! We looked at each other, ears straining for anything that resembled a cry or possibly a gurgle... nothing.

- Maybe he's...

- Na, I'm sure he's fine