A bit of black comedy/ horror

My Mum exudes extreme prowess in the art of food shopping. She always comes back from the supermarket with bagfuls of reduced food items. She knows the best time of the week to go and where to bag the bargains. She does also buy full priced food, she's not entirely tight, but there is something satisfying about grabbing an item with a red label and a price slash on it.You feel smug, even if you're buying something that you would never dream of buying normally and it's not even that cheap.

I have recently realised I am starting to follow in her footsteps. Since moving out of home, I am cottoning on to the tricks of the trade. When I do my weekly food shop I head straight for the reduced aisle first to check out what's there. And let's not pretend it's not aggressive around there. The little section of shelving is prone to be surrounded, hands grabbing from all directions. And there's always one stern man or woman stood directly in front of it, refusing to shuffle or move up for others.

I wrote the following little story as an ode to the reduced aisle. It is silly, I had fun writing it. I have used women only - not to be sexist, it's just that I was going for a 'Desperate Housewives/ Death Becomes Her' sort of thing.

Supermarket Rage

Karena jammed the wheels up against the back of the woman’s leather boots.

“Oh gosh, sorry, this trolley’s a bit dodgy,” she beamed in mock apology.

The biker chick turned her head and scowled. Her feet remained firmly planted, she didn’t swivel or inch to the left. Stupid bitch. She had a packet of Black Farmer sausages in her hand. Karena scanned the shelves for another. She eased up the sleeves of her mauve cardigan in anticipation. Her lips were painted perfect ochre, and her nails varnished in ‘midnight delight’; the darkest shade of red. She took pride in her appearance, and always made time for a monthly manicure. The other woman was dressed in skinny black jeans and a purple knit jumper. She wore a leather jacket with silver studs on it.

Karena leaned in to where the booted girl was standing. “Shove up Buttercup, I’ve got my rights just as much as the next girl.” Karena raised an eyebrow and curled a lip at her.

Biker chick stared at Karena, sausages still clenched in her left hand. It was a cold, hard stare. Karena recognised the narrowing of her eyes and the unflinching mouth. This look was not exclusive to humans. It was an instinctive glare practiced across the animal kingdom. Karena had seen it employed by a penguin on ‘Planet Earth’ last night. Her home was being threatened by another penguin, who was trying to steal all of the stones she had collected to build her home. Biker chick used it on Karena now. The two of them stood, eyeballing one another in the Sainsbury's reduced goods aisle. The scene had echoes of a John Wayne stand-off.

A moment of silence charged with rage ensued. Who was going to give in first? Karena tightened her grip on the orange trolley handle. The other woman placed the sausages in her basket and held the basket in front of her like a shield. Karena was better equipped and they both knew it. Biker chick took a side step to the left, and broke Karena’s gaze to return to her foraging of the reduced goods. It was a tiny step, but it was a victory for now. The power was back in Karena’s hands. She parked her trolley close to her right hip to block any attackers coming in from the dairy aisle next door.  She turned her full attention to the shelves and started scanning the reduced items.

Why was there always a pie of some sort? It was chicken and mushroom today. It made Karena sad to think that the British no longer stuck to their pie-eating roots. However, she made no attempt to pick up the pie herself – far too fattening. Perhaps that was why nobody else wanted it either. Everyone was on some kind of diet these days.

Oh excellent, an organic lamb joint; £4.55, down from £12– bargain! Karena jabbed a quick left hook out to grab it. Biker bitch was surprisingly fast. She had a reflex or two on her, Karena would give her that much. She laid her hand over the lamb as Karena’s painted talon tapped the plastic of the packaging. By rule of shop, that would bequeath official ownership of the lamb shoulder to biker chick, should she choose to take it. Karena saw a tight smile spread across her lips. She was well aware of the rules. She picked up the lamb and studied it. “Hmmm...”, biker chick seemed to take great pleasure in drumming a pensive finger on her chin as she pondered whether she needed it or not. Of course she didn’t. She hadn’t even considered it until she knew Karena wanted it. She probably didn’t even eat lamb.

“This will taste wonderful with a rosemary and juniper berry jus, don’t you think?” Biker chick widened her eyes at Karena, feigning innocence and waiting for a response.

“Well…I’m not actually a big fan of the juniper berry. I have cooked with it before of course, last season. I’ve grown out of the juniper berry phase. I prefer to cook lamb smothered in garlic and cracked black pepper imported from Cambodia, personally.” Karena turned her nose up and continued surveying the shelves. She was pretty sure she managed to look nonchalant.

Biker bitch plonked the lamb into her basket. Karena seethed with rage. She tried to shake the lost lamb joint from her mind and focus on the task at hand. She picked up a ‘Sloppy Giuseppe’ pizza. It was reduced to £1.50. She placed it in her trolley. She could see it all now; Biker chick crouched on the ground guzzling on the lamb joint, tearing chunks out of it like a savage. Stopping every now and then, she bore her teeth aggressively, juniper juice dripping from her lips like blood.

There was an organic lump of goat’s cheese and a pack of two rump steaks. Karena honed in on them like a sniper, picking out her target. She put them in her trolley. Biker girl was looking at a bag of onion bhajis from the delhi counter. They were breaking even now, Karena thought, surveying the items in her trolley like a proud cat. She pulled a tub of 'Taste the Difference' mushroom soup from the top shelf to inspect it more closely. As she reached for the soup, she revealed the jackpot. There was a large Gü bitter chocolate cheesecake that would be perfect for the dinner party she was hosting tonight. Biker girl gasped at the sight of it.

Both women grabbed for the cheesecake at the same time. This was it; the final round. They pulled at the cheesecake like it was a thick rope in a primary school tug of war. The packaging began to tear on Karena’s side. She groped for the trolley handle at her side with one hand and swivelled it to face biker chick. She used her full force to ram it towards her. Biker chick kicked up her left boot to protect herself from the trolley. She stumbled at the impact but did not let go of the cheesecake. The trolley fell on its side in the middle of the aisle, narrowly escaping an elderly woman with tinted glasses and a floral scarf tied around her head.  The old woman shrieked, dropping her basket full of tinned prunes to the floor. She hobbled off to announce the fight to a security guard.

Biker chick clung to the cheesecake with her left hand and freed her right to grab a turkey leg from the reduced basket next to her. She raised the leg above her head like a baseball bat and swung it with all her might. The turkey leg clubbed Karena around the left temple. Now a turkey leg, if you’ve ever encountered one, is a sturdy weapon. It is about ten times the size of a chicken leg with a thick bone running all the way through it. Biker chick was in for a homerun. Karena’s head snapped at the neck and fell off. It bounced on the shelf trimming and rolled into the reduced basket on the bottom shelf. ‘Ha, just where she belongs’, muttered biker chick, congratulating herself on such a perfect conclusion.

Karena’s body stood motionless in the shopping aisle, her painted talons fell limply to her sides. Blood gushed violently from her neck in spurts of crimson that clashed with her cardigan. The blood pooled at her feet and on patches of the white stone floor. Biker chick took a step back and admired the scene like it was a piece of art. The white shop floor looked like a large scale gourmet plate, sprinkled neatly with juniper berry jus. Biker chick picked up the smashed cheesecake from the floor and placed it in her basket. She pulled a tissue from her pocket and used it to mop up some of the blood that had pooled on the cake and was beginning to curdle. A dusting of icing sugar would sort out the damage, she thought.

Biker chick waltzed off towards the check-out, bending over by Karena’s fallen trolley to retrieve the organic goat’s cheese. She had exciting dinner plans and she better get going with the cooking she thought, consulting her watch.

Where do all the odd socks go?

Worn socks.
Bottom of the laundry basket, scrunched up inbetween layers of bedsheets and clothes. A stripey green and blue one falls to the grey landing carpet as I shake out Paula's green tank top.

Like a pass the parcel, a hidden gem reveals itself in every layer that's unwrapped.
Only they smell, so less exciting than a pass the parcel. More like a booby prize, or a lame adult version of the game. Far less fun than winning the balloon animal kit or a bag of haribo.

No, Mum's job is to harvest worn socks from every furthest dusty corner of the house. I feel like a fisherman out at sea, casting my net as far and wide as possible and reeling it in, hoping I've got them all.

Rolled into a sweaty ball in Jonny's room, that's the most treacherous part of the sea. I often pinch my nose in anticipation as I tiptoe into his room, afraid of what I might find.
The worst is finding just one.
Then I have to plunge an arm under the dusty bed, fumbling blindly for the partner to this decrepid white Umbro sea urchin. Aha, gotcha! But no, it's another single, lonely sock, a black one. I always find myself wandering where all the odd socks go?

We have a battered Waitrose Bag for Life circa 2003, full of odd socks. Washed and fit to be worn. The heels are all strong and not a hole in sight. Some of them have been in that bag for years!
Matches do show up though so I hesitate to throw any away. It's like a Lonely Hearts for odd socks. The socks send out adverts and wait for their perfect match, their complementary sock. Sometimes if one of us is out of clean socks, we'll consult the bag as a last resort. A quick bit of speed dating and we're pulling together an odd pair. They never get on that well. I had a green and white polkadot number once and one of Paula's pink socks with a panda on it.

What is Stephen Harper Reading?

Yann Martel is up there among my favourite writers of all time. He was born in 1963 in Spain, of French-Canadian parents. He now lives in Canada. He has written the following books, all of them great reads in my opinion. His most notable is Life of Pi, which won him the Man Booker Prize in 2002.

The Facts Behind The Helsinki Roccamatios - 1993

Four short stories that contemplate themes such as grief, the extremities of war, death and illness. Sound like a bundle of joy? Well, it's actually a beautiful and touching book, and not as heavy as it sounds!

Self - 1996

An autobiography that dwells on the nature of identity. The blurb on the back cover of the book asks: 'What is fiction? What is autobiography? What is man? What is woman? What is violence? What is happiness?' A whole host of questions. Postmodern and fantastical, Martel explores the boundaries of identity by transcending them. He morphs seamlessly between a male and female body and writes in different languages, to gain a fluid sense of identity that is not confined to one culture or gender. 

Life of Pi - 2002

The book that won him the prize. A surreal tale of a 16-year-old-boy’s 227-day adventure bobbing along the Pacific ocean in a life raft, accompanied by a spotted hyena, a zebra with a broken leg, a female orangutan and a 450lb Royal Bengal Tiger. A spirited meditation on philosophy, religion and life. I can see why he won.

 

Beatrice and Virgil -  2010

An author named Henry is attempting to follow up a successful novel with a book about The Holocaust (clearly an autobiographical nod here). The book is to be accompanied by an essay about The Holocaust. The publisher is doubtful and claims it will never sell. Henry then receives a script for a play from an old taxidermist (also called Henry). The play places a howler monkey and a donkey in the aftermath of an unnamed crisis. It deals with their attempt to come to terms with life on earth following the crisis. This book is an ambitious attempt to transcribe The Holocaust into fiction, and explore how life can continue in the aftermath of such traumatic events.

So...what's the Prime Minister of Canada got to do with all of this?

On 28th March 2007, Martel was snubbed at a Canadian State Arts event, where he was representing the Canadian Arts Council, along with 49 other Canadian artists, writers, dancers and musicians. He noted that the Canadian Prime Minister looked far too busy shuffling papers about other matters to raise an eyebrow to the art world. Art and politics don't mix, many would say.

Martel wasn't happy. If the conservative government was going to cut arts funding (which they had), he wanted to speak out about it. He decided to do so by undertaking an unusual project. On 16th April 2007 Martel posted a copy of Leo Tolstoy's The Death of Ivan Ilych to Stephen Harper, the Prime Minister of Canada. He included a letter expressing the merits of the book. For the next couple of years, Martel and other Canadian writer's who jumped aboard the project, posted a book and a letter to the Prime Minister once a fortnight. The idea was to send books that would inspire moments of 'stillness'  in the Prime Minister.

Excerpt from Martel's first letter:
"I know you’re very busy, Mr. Harper. We’re all busy. Meditating monks in their cells are busy. That’s adult life, filled to the ceiling with things that need doing. (It seems only children and the elderly aren’t plagued by lack of time—and notice how they enjoy their books, how their lives fill their eyes.) But every person has a space next to where they sleep, whether a patch of pavement or a fine bedside table. In that space, at night, a book can glow. And in those moments of docile wakefulness, when we begin to let go of the day, then is the perfect time to pick up a book and be someone else, somewhere else, for a few minutes, a few pages, before we fall asleep."

Martel received very little for his efforts - a couple of letters of acknowledgment here and there, mostly from the Prime Minister's staff. On 28th February 2011, Martel sent book number 101 and made it his last.

It may be a project that was clearly set to be ignored from the onset. The Prime Minister probably is too busy to read letters and books from Yann Martel. But I think that is the point, and one that Martel persevered in making for a good few years. As an artist, he probably also had the end product in mind all along. He has compiled the first 55 letters into book format. This project was aimed at the Prime Minister in concept, but clearly it is also an extensive reading list, complete with short essays of literary criticism from Martel.

One journalist, writing for The Guardian expresses her opinion on the project in an article dated Thursday 3rd February 2011: "Harper, it seems, has not been grateful.Of course he hasn't, you idiot. You are 47 years old and it appears that you have had virtually no experience of life." A little harsh, but everyone is entitled to their opinion.

Personally, I ruddy love Martel's idea. His actions express his devotion to literature and illuminate the importance of the arts. His reading list contains a wide selection of literature, including children's books, fiction, graphic novels, history, philsophy, memoir, biography, poetry and plays. Each book is carefully considered and his letters highlight their importance and a synopsis with clarity, intelligence and insight.

101 books - I hope someone read them! Even if they were sent to the dogs - at least give them to Cruella de Ville and she's got a full set of bedtime reading for the dalmations. They are probably, in all honestly, more likely to read them than Stephen Harper. 

The full list of books and letters sent to Stephen Harper, and the (few) responses received can be found on this website dedicated to the project: http://www.whatisstephenharperreading.ca/ 

The Reading List

I thought it would be a good idea to keep a record of my reading. I'm not going to write in depth book reviews, but just a post every couple of months to summarise what I've been reading and what I thought of the books. So here is the 2012 reading list so far...

Stephen King - 'On Writing'

 An insightful, inspiring and helpful book. I'm not actually a huge fan of Stephen King's literature. I admire what he writes and I think he's great at it, it's just not usually what I choose to read. That said, what I have read in my early teens has stayed with me. Scenes from 'The Tommyknockers' are still vivid in my mind. I also remember reading 'IT' when I was on holiday in Finland. Our summer house in Finland faces a forest and you have to walk to the bottom of the garden to use the toilet. Whenever I needed a wee during the night that summer, I remember refusing to give in to my bladder in case a werewolf clown was lurking somewhere in the bushes.

King finished 'On Writing' after he was knocked down by a van and seriously injured in 1999. 
The book is split into three sections: 'C.V.', 'Toolbox' and 'On Living: A Post-Transcript'.

'C.V.' works as autobiography, detailing King's writing journey. It was reassuring to read that Stephen King once had a huge metal spike hammered into his bedroom wall, full of rejection slips. When he finally made a breakthrough, it was 'Carrie' that was the dealbreaker. This was also, funnily enough, a book he had decided was rubbish and had binned halfway through writing. His wife Tabby recovered the script from the bin and persuaded King to carry on with it.

'Toolbox' is sort of like 'the science bit' in the L'Oreal adverts. It covers the tools and techniques that are required to write well. I found that this section covered all of the important tools in just enough detail to be helpful, without becoming tedious. I particularly found tips on editing helpful as I struggle to edit effectively, or even edit at all. To produce a good story, it is essential to get down to the bare bones.

The final section of the book recounts the story of King's near-fatal accident. He was hit whilst taking a walk, by a chillingly unemotional driver with a vicious bulldog. King luckily still has his humour intact, as he suggests that he was almost killed by a character straight out of one of his own books.

King offers sound, encouraging advice to adhere to as a writer, whatever the genre and focus of your writing. King does this without pretension, in a practical, 'cut-the-bullshit' fashion. Definitely worth a read if you are interested in writing.

 

Hanif Kureishi - Intimacy

A brave and unflinching account of male desire and restlessness. The male portrayed here is not one we admire. Jay neither loves or lusts after his wife anymore. Susan (his wife) is a practical woman. Jay finds himself trapped in his own cerebral musings about why he is not happy. His wife bores him and he feels impotent at home.

The novella inhabits Jay's inner thoughts as he grapples with the decision he has made to leave his wife and two young boys. He plans to walk out on them the following day, in favour of single life.

The story recounts Jay's endless affairs and sexual exploits outside the home. He is disengaged and apathetic, following his dick through life and dodging his responsibilites. In one scene we hear how Jay leaves the hospital after his first child is born. He leaves his wife and baby, grabbing the champagne given to the couple to celebrate the birth by his parents-in-law. He drives straight to a young woman's house. They have sex and share the champagne. But even if I didn't warm to the character, I warmed to the honesty. Kureishi has a rare talent for character. I love the way he writes. Through the honesty, I found myself both repulsed, and simultaneously sympathetic towards Jay and his feelings.

Milan Kundera - The Unbearable Lightness of Being

Kundera's novel interweaves characters that tell us of life, love and politics in communist-ruled Czechoslovakia from 1968 to the early 1980s. The novel questions what it is to be human. How much consequence and weight do our actions hold? Are they insignificant and weightless in the scheme of things, or should we treat them with moral weight and take the consequences seriously? The most beautiful, honest and unaffected character in the novel is actually Karenin, Tereza and Tomas's dog.

When Karenin dies, we mourn the loss of simple and unquestioned innocence and loyalty. This ties in with one of Kundera's main philosophical interjections in the book. He believes that the fundamental truth of man's character can be revealed in our attitude towards animals. He claims that "true human goodness, in all its purity and freedom, can come to the fore only when its recipient has no power." In this way, "mankind's true moral test, its fundamental test" lies in its treatment of those at its mercy. In this sense, Kundera points out that man has failed and exalted his true arrogance. He refers to man at one point as a 'cow parasite'. In becoming disconnected from the simplicity of what it is to be an animal, we have barred our own path to paradise. Our actions bear incredible weight because we have chosen this complex path of power. Kundera feels that our choice to abuse our power over animals is the fundamental human error from which all others stem.

 I found this book more compelling towards the end. The underlying philosophical questions were engaging and made me think.

Raymond Carver - Where I'm Calling From

Often hailed as the master of the American short story, Carver is just that. This book pulls together thirty seven stories from all of Carver's previous short story collections. The tome also includes seven previously unpublished stories.

Carver gets right in there. His stories are vignettes, tableaus, snapshots of lives. They are gripping. The openings pull us in and the characters keep us reading. Carver writes with perfect economy, there are no fluffy words, or out of place sentences. I read this book, literally trying my hardest to become a sponge, so that I could absorb all that I could of his craft. I borrowed the book from the library, but I reckon it's definitely one to keep on the shelf and revisit.

Lynne Truss - Eats, Shoots and Leaves

My grammar and punctuation are pretty shocking. I studied English Literature at University so it should be better. In the feedback I received on essays throughout my undergraduate degree, the one criticism that ran through was about the grammar. I actually remember enjoying using punctuation like a paintbrush. I thought that it should be used to make writing personal, to splice and dice a sentence however the writer saw fit. I basically chucked in semicolons and dashes where I thought they looked nice. It is testament to my poor approah to the conventions and rules of the English language to note that my Pakistani friend used to proof-read my essays for me and correct the grammar! English was his second language.

So I figured it was about time I got my head down and learnt the 'boring' rules of our language. Luckily, Truss makes them interesting. This impressed me in itself - she is a self confessed 'punctuation stickler'. Her blood boils when she sees poorly punctuated signs in shop windows and elsewhere. I, clearly, am not a stickler. Yet this book still worked for me and I still revelled in her humour. She told many witty stories of poorly used punctuation and how it could completely change the context of a sentence leading to grave mis-reading.

Punctuation invites us to imbue our writing with meaning. It aids the writer's plight to communicate effectively, and the reader's ability to grasp the meaning. Punctuation is key to good writing and not worth forgetting. I still have a lot to learn, but this was a good start!



Lords of the Fly

Sam cupped his hands, careful not to let any cracks form between his fingers. He yelped and raised his arms above his head, shaking them jubilantly in self-congratulation, like he had won a trophy at a football match.

“Jiiiiiiiiiiiim, I got one. I got it in my hands now. It’s a big one. What shall we do with it?”

Jim ran over, his eyes wide and his mouth serious with concentration, despite the blueberry jam smudged around it. He held out the empty Heinz baked bean tin he had grabbed from the recycling bin.

“Put it in here Sam. Let’s trap it. “

 “Good idea. I can feel him buzzing around, can you hear it? He’s getting angry.”

Sam held his cupped hands up to Jim’s ear and they both stood, almost chest to chest, an ear each pressed against Sam’s grubby hands.

Both boys laughed, revealing neat, peg-like milk teeth. Their faces contorted like play dough. Jim tipped his head back and shrieked wildly, stamping his feet and holding his belly.

Jim beckoned with the baked bean tin, his laughter subsiding. “Come on let’s put him in the tin. He might bite you.”

“Flies can’t bite stupid, they are harmless.”

Jim bent down and held the tin steady with both hands. Sam knelt slowly, holding his cupped hands out in front of him until they were positioned over the tin. Both boys were silent and only the frantic buzzing of the fly could be heard.

“Wait, I’ll go and get something to cover the tin with so he doesn’t get out.”Jim ran off towards the house.

Sam could feel the fly rushing to and fro inside the cave of his hands. It felt funny when it crashed into the wall of his palms. The creature was so small that when it flew full force at the wall, it merely tapped gently, its wings vibrating lightly and tickling his skin. 

Jim returned with a hardback ‘Spot the Dog’ book. It had a round green sticker on the spine.

“Ready?” Sam asked, pushing his small hands carefully into the opening of the tin. He opened them, pulled them away and Jim slammed ‘Spot Follows His Nose’ over the mouth of the tin.

The boys stared at each other and listened. There was no sound other than the leaves on the silver birch tree rustling overhead.   The boys sat around the tin for some time, Jim’s hands clamped firmly on the book, his knuckles turning white with the pressure.They waited for a clue from the fly, but they heard nothing. He must be sitting very still waiting for a clue from them.

 “What shall we do now?” Jim whispered.

“We could leave him in there and check on him every hour to see how long it takes him to die?”

“What if he never dies?” Jim interjected.

“He will starve though,” Sam answered .

“Flies don’t need food, and at school there is a poster saying they can be sick and then eat it again so he can do that forever.”

Sam scratched his chin. “Ok, we could pull off his wings or legs, or both, and see what happens?”

Jim’s stained mouth gaped into a smile. “Yeah good idea! What will a fly do without wings?! Haha, he will be like a big fat ant crawling in the grass!”

“Ha, and none of the other ants will like him because he is so fat and ugly.”

“Yeah, they might eat him! It will be like a big feast, like when my Mum and Dad cooked that pig on the stick last summer and everyone ate it.”

The boys grew into a flurry of excitement as they brainstormed around the tin. In twenty years time they would still be brainstorming together. They would be in a boardroom, wearing trim grey suits, exchanging ideas on how to cut the costs of ‘Grub’s Up’. The business supplied vending machines to offices and schools, sometimes even homes. The vending machines supplied hot meals via a nifty inner microwave system that heated pre-cooked food before dispensing it. The enthusiasm of their youth had waned. They would not stop to notice the fly buzzing around their heads, except as a mild irritant. Sam took a break during the meeting to open the window and set it free.