When I woke up this morning the cats were confused. Or at least more confused than normal.
"It's like Narnia!" squealed my housemate.
Then I realised it: Cornwall was covered in snow - a rare thing for Cornwall. I threw on my army boots, which were even more confused than the cats, and headed out for a walk.
I used to think that Heaven was white, soft, like a land deep with snow. I suppose it's a fitting comparison. Cornwall was in freeze-frame this morning.
I looked across the fields between my house and Helston, where they say the devil flew with St Michael in pursuit. The borders of the lands were erased, and as I made my way I didn't know if I was walking on road or verge, grass or tarmac. That was the sense that held - the sense of walking where you wouldn't usually walk; doing what you wouldn't usually do. People were sledding on one of the hillsides, and a couple of girls were rolling a snowman's body. They were all trespassing, patches of errant people amid the whiteness.
Perhaps like heaven. The snow had made everywhere uncharted, virgin, and as I followed the footsteps I wondered what joys and energies had made those strides, what things had happened inside their heads.
It is enough not to know people, but to know that they have laughed as you've laughed, wondered as you've wondered. The same will hold in heaven.
The snow was the event that we all reflected from - perhaps like death for those in the afterlife. That's what communities are - that's what they should be - like those of Wartime or the days of invention, where single things brought us all together.
This morning a simple change in the geography had brought such. The voices I heard were distant, but all happy, all excited.
I know now that utopia may come; for how simple it was to bring that happiness: just a change, a covering of coloured powder, and then new energies arise, new happiness.
Did they feel it too - the sense of a land reclaimed? The borders were erased and with them had gone all sense of ownership. Is that why we are happy, because we give ourselves to the occupation of something else - that we embrace this check upon our miserable and aimless freedom?
History would warn us of this. But what if that thing we yielded to was unmistakeably beautiful, as beautiful as snowfall. Would it be different then?
And then something wonderful happened. I walked in the tyre-tracks on the road and the ground made a sound like empty crisp packets. And I thought, how wonderful that my readers would not understand this simile. They would picture it wrong, or think the simile weak or refrain from it altogether. How wonderful - something that cannot be described.
To think that there are things unknowable, unrelatable. How much more beauty there is in the world than what we relay to one another.
Is that why God keeps such a distance? Like virgin snow, couched in the unknown with the greater part of a universe we cannot share in words.
And yet, for all this, I would love nothing more than to share it with someone - to try at least, though I know it will be inadequate; though I know I would not say to her all I felt and we would not reach the emotional heights we dream of, or if we did we would not remember.
Yet still I would try, for hope that I would leave but one mystery in her heart, like virgin snow, like God unknowable; that she might count me among the greater beauty that lies beyond a shallow seeming.
Truly, as a thousand masters have told me, there is nothing better than to have a friend, a child, a loved one, whatever their capacity.
I need to know that people feel this - that they know and un-know the world as much as me and do not perch above their graves and let great things like waves crash apart around them.
I hope they felt this day as much as I did.
Tuesday, 3 February 2009
Thursday, 22 January 2009
New House: Attempted
"Asmo...you know if you started an online blog with your wit and humor...it could become an immensely popular site"
Such was the paradoxical comment from one of my American friends.
I told him that I had indeed started an online blog, but it had yet to prove immensely popular, especially to myself seeing as I had left it for 9 months and had to find the URL by looking under my bed.
Things are never worthwhile if you have to look under a bed for them. Nothing good has ever come of such behaviour.
So, let's see. I've got an MA now. I would have got a distinction, but the college saw fit to employ a man with pathological hatred of the children's, young adult, fantasy, sci-fi, romance, drama, magical realism and thriller genres.
He described my work as a "Soulless necromancer's cat's-cradle of unlikely events." I retorted that he was being unprofessional and promptly got threatened with legal action over defamation of character.
So I must add my college course to the long history of needlessly idealistic rebellions that saw me kicked out of a hotel, the army, my BA course and my care job.
I have since finished that particular cat's cradle of unlikely events and have now embarked upon another - namely moving into a new house with an ex-girlfriend, her daughter who I dated briefly and a delusional psychotic who wants to marry me.
If anyone asks, I jump right to the part where all 3 of them are bisexual.
The girlfriend front remains a dead ringer for the Western front - vast, monotonous, littered with the bodies of young idiots and a rather silly affair altogether. My penis seems to be getting better at recovering after each masturbation, and now that there's a TV in the house it's being put to regular exercise.
The penis and the TV.
I wish they would put more ugly people on television.
The house is a Grade 2 Medieval Wheelwrights - four floors, church timbers, mediterranean garden, gym, 3 bathrooms, minstrel's gallery and one very pissed off ghost.
Said ghost is in the habit of plaguing me with nightmares - perhaps he's got sick of people masturbating in his house. I've been strangled by a tentacle monster, eaten by a clam, mauled by zombies, savaged by a demon child, kidnapped by a publishing agent, drowned, smothered, shot by my old drill sergeant and confronted with the theory that I've been unconscious since last year and have imagined everything since.
In order to avert the perhaps-inevitable moment where I fuck up the house by embarking on a crusade of exorcism, I have diverted my rebellious energies to a different forum.
The Iwaku forum to be precise, a little writing community that I administrated and wholly excluded from my comedic creations. I decided to step down after inflicting a momentous catalogue of structural changes that the little yankies and Japanophiles objected to. Plus I got sold out by an egotistical WOW-player.
Note to self - never mess with WOW-players.
So, with that sacrifice to the altar of periodic fuck-ups, I'm settling in to the new house nicely.
My housemate (the delusional psychotic one) isn't talking to me because I said her cat was fat and asked her to take her hairs out of the shower.
Should I apologize for that...? Well, the nightmares have tailed off lately, so maybe the ghost agrees with me about the cat.
Oh, and the other day I found out that every event, choice and detail of my 26-year life has been definitively linked to a grand premeditated scheme of cosmic significance.
But that can wait...
Such was the paradoxical comment from one of my American friends.
I told him that I had indeed started an online blog, but it had yet to prove immensely popular, especially to myself seeing as I had left it for 9 months and had to find the URL by looking under my bed.
Things are never worthwhile if you have to look under a bed for them. Nothing good has ever come of such behaviour.
So, let's see. I've got an MA now. I would have got a distinction, but the college saw fit to employ a man with pathological hatred of the children's, young adult, fantasy, sci-fi, romance, drama, magical realism and thriller genres.
He described my work as a "Soulless necromancer's cat's-cradle of unlikely events." I retorted that he was being unprofessional and promptly got threatened with legal action over defamation of character.
So I must add my college course to the long history of needlessly idealistic rebellions that saw me kicked out of a hotel, the army, my BA course and my care job.
I have since finished that particular cat's cradle of unlikely events and have now embarked upon another - namely moving into a new house with an ex-girlfriend, her daughter who I dated briefly and a delusional psychotic who wants to marry me.
If anyone asks, I jump right to the part where all 3 of them are bisexual.
The girlfriend front remains a dead ringer for the Western front - vast, monotonous, littered with the bodies of young idiots and a rather silly affair altogether. My penis seems to be getting better at recovering after each masturbation, and now that there's a TV in the house it's being put to regular exercise.
The penis and the TV.
I wish they would put more ugly people on television.
The house is a Grade 2 Medieval Wheelwrights - four floors, church timbers, mediterranean garden, gym, 3 bathrooms, minstrel's gallery and one very pissed off ghost.
Said ghost is in the habit of plaguing me with nightmares - perhaps he's got sick of people masturbating in his house. I've been strangled by a tentacle monster, eaten by a clam, mauled by zombies, savaged by a demon child, kidnapped by a publishing agent, drowned, smothered, shot by my old drill sergeant and confronted with the theory that I've been unconscious since last year and have imagined everything since.
In order to avert the perhaps-inevitable moment where I fuck up the house by embarking on a crusade of exorcism, I have diverted my rebellious energies to a different forum.
The Iwaku forum to be precise, a little writing community that I administrated and wholly excluded from my comedic creations. I decided to step down after inflicting a momentous catalogue of structural changes that the little yankies and Japanophiles objected to. Plus I got sold out by an egotistical WOW-player.
Note to self - never mess with WOW-players.
So, with that sacrifice to the altar of periodic fuck-ups, I'm settling in to the new house nicely.
My housemate (the delusional psychotic one) isn't talking to me because I said her cat was fat and asked her to take her hairs out of the shower.
Should I apologize for that...? Well, the nightmares have tailed off lately, so maybe the ghost agrees with me about the cat.
Oh, and the other day I found out that every event, choice and detail of my 26-year life has been definitively linked to a grand premeditated scheme of cosmic significance.
But that can wait...
Sunday, 27 April 2008
Comedy Attempted: I want to be a producer...
So... erm... yeah, I'm a Comedy Producer now...
My friend Chris has asked me to produce a show with him. His last two co-producers bailed out, and he hates women and people who argue with him, so that leaves me...
I'm not sure what to expect - never done anything like this before, except that one play where I abused a bunch of kids by making them play poetry-spouting renegade angels (but we do not speak of that). Chris has the potential to be a very irritating person. He talks in theory and anecdotes, usually whilst smoking and wearing gay shirts. He's doing this show in order to distract himself from his novel, which is more depressing than premature ejaculation to James Blunt.
I'm gonna have to be extra funny. I wrote a sketch today about a man in a toilet. Things are looking up.
My friend Chris has asked me to produce a show with him. His last two co-producers bailed out, and he hates women and people who argue with him, so that leaves me...
I'm not sure what to expect - never done anything like this before, except that one play where I abused a bunch of kids by making them play poetry-spouting renegade angels (but we do not speak of that). Chris has the potential to be a very irritating person. He talks in theory and anecdotes, usually whilst smoking and wearing gay shirts. He's doing this show in order to distract himself from his novel, which is more depressing than premature ejaculation to James Blunt.
I'm gonna have to be extra funny. I wrote a sketch today about a man in a toilet. Things are looking up.
Friday, 18 April 2008
Truth Attempted: Gross Misconduct
Yesterday was my birthday. Today I wrote an article for the Daily Mail. Here it is:
Children’s Care Home is in tatters
They’ve dismissed the staff member who swore at a 17 year old. They’ve kept the staff member who lied to the kids, faked illness and sabotaged the rest of his team.
Greg Corcoran has looked after children with learning disabilities for 5 years. But now he’s been dismissed from his unit for swearing at a 17 year old. Meanwhile, Dan Cooke, who has worked in care for less than a year, is returning to work after abusing the children and faking chest pains to get time off.
‘The Care Home is in tatters!’ says Harri Burch, Greg’s best friend and co-worker, ‘They’ve got rid of a man who genuinely cared about the kids, and they’ve let back in a liar and an abuser who is a threat to all vulnerable people.’
The children at Langley House in
Yet all of his efforts were ruined when the selfish Dan Cooke joined the team. This man has done everything possible to turn the kids against the rest of the staff. Dan told the kids that they could only trust him, and he told them personal secrets about the other staff members. He took the kids out, buying them food and drink and encouraging them to shout at members of the public and misbehave.
Of course, Dan got away with this. He seemed to cover his tracks well and nothing could ever be proved by co-workers or upper management. When the rest of the staff began to criticize him he stopped turning up for work. He said he had chest pains. One of his co-workers saw him in the pub the next day.
‘He was smiling and chatting away to his friends,’ says Nicola Clifton, key worker at the unit with Greg, ‘I asked him if he was alright and he pretended not to know what I was talking about.’
The Unit struggled to cover Dan’s shifts and undo the damage he had done to the children. Greg worked especially hard with the oldest child in the unit, a 17 year old who is set to leave care in June of this year.
But while Dan got away with his abuse, Greg wasn’t so lucky. When the 17 year old threatened to attack him whilst out shopping, Greg refused to back down. He squared up to the abusive teenager and warned him of the consequences of assault. He told him “you’ll throw your whole f*cking life away if you do this!” The 17 year old backed down, and Greg apologised to the other people in the shop. But when the incident got reported Greg was suspended indefinitely, and then dismissed 3 weeks later.
The kid he swore at is leaving care in 3 months and is going out to live and fend for himself on his own. But until then, he is still classed as a child by the authorities, so swearing at him is considered gross misconduct. Greg was fired for moving outside the “agreed framework” for that child.
‘The reason I moved outside the framework,’ says Greg, ‘is because [the child] is about to leave the framework! In three months he will enter the real world, and he still thinks he can threaten people in public and get away with it. If I had to break protocol to show him some real-life consequences, then losing my job was worth it. I love that kid and I want him to learn. If I had the chance I’d do it again.’
The 17 year old’s behaviour has improved a lot since that day. He is learning independent skills and planning forward to the day he leaves care. But all that could be ruined now that his keyworker, Greg, has been dismissed for gross misconduct and the poisonous Dan Cooke returns to continue his abuse.
‘He’s leaving care in 3 months, and they’re bringing back a man who lies to him, turns him against others, encourages his aggression and contradicts the rest of the staff,’ says Greg. ‘They’ve taken away the one who cares, and brought back the man who consistently abused him.’
Langley House has been put under special measures for the duration of the investigation. Greg’s co-workers are in uproar and the children are confused. One man’s attempt to teach a teenager about real life has led to disciplinary action that has crippled a once thriving care home.
Wednesday, 16 April 2008
Truth Attempted: The day I wasn't published
In the deepest cavern of the Crown Hotel, a young girl waits. A succubus in the shadows, lingering with a tray of sweetest delights. Cornflakes, butter, a rack of white toast and the juice of an unknown fruit. She waits... day and night... waiting for us.
At last we find the dining room and settle down for breakfast. The girl appears with the tray and sets it down. We have no choice but to eat. European stereotypes sit around us, like ghosts of the past. This morning, we dine in Purgatory.
Half an hour later, fuelled by the default breakfast of the Crown Hotel, we set out for Earl's Court. I am buoyant, my heart filled with dreams of being 'discovered'. I have two appointments booked with Random House and Harper Collins, giants of the industry. They will notice me, they will love me - they will spread my word unto the masses.
The London Book Fair fills the two giant conference centres of Earl's Court. I wander between the stalls, a bazaar-like array of wonders and hidden treasures... endless possibilites, all that I could want. These are my people, they brush shoulders with me, they talk and do business.
One of them even gave me a free notebook. Rock on!
After two seminars I am pumped. My first appointment with Random House draws near. I go to their stand and proudly announce my name.
"Who?" says the bewildered girl.
"Greg Corcoran."
She looks at her notes, "No, sorry, you're not down here."
"It's with Jane Kirby."
"Oh, you better check with her."
I run up the escalator and find Jane Kirby, talking to other important people.
"Who?" barks Jane.
"Greg Corcoran"
"Never heard of you."
"I booked an appointment with you... through the website."
"Sorry, but that means nothing to me."
I get the same story from Harper Collins. The website was a facade... the appointment booking system has been ignored...
I have been ignored.
I feel the weight of every book in the fair fall upon me. The horrible truth dawns: this is not a fair for students.... this is a fair for business and buyers. No one will talk to me... no one will acknoweldge me...
I end the day snivelling in the corner and looking up at Blake Morrison as he gives a talk, dispensing words of wisdom with a gentle smile. The man I will never be... the grace I will never know...
I begin scribbling a song in my free notebook. At least I'll get something out of these bastards.
Then my phone beeps. I have pissed off another girl - she is London too and she wants to talk. I tell her I'm with Maria... she stops talking to me.
I'm a bad man. I'm a failed man.
Maria takes me to an Italian restaurant to cheer me up. Our waiter has an argument with the chef and the head waiter, Polish obscenities spewing back and forth. Me and Maria sneak out whilst they are confronting each other in the kitchen. Maybe the waiter had been to the Book Fair today as well.
Finally, we return to the hotel of doom with comfort-Starbucks and consolation-brownies. I turn on the TV and watch a young James Woods kick the shit out of sexy vampires.
But it's not enough. I feel like a ginger kid, held upside down, my head smashed against a cabinet.
"I hate you." I mutter at the industry as I drift into sleep.
At last we find the dining room and settle down for breakfast. The girl appears with the tray and sets it down. We have no choice but to eat. European stereotypes sit around us, like ghosts of the past. This morning, we dine in Purgatory.
Half an hour later, fuelled by the default breakfast of the Crown Hotel, we set out for Earl's Court. I am buoyant, my heart filled with dreams of being 'discovered'. I have two appointments booked with Random House and Harper Collins, giants of the industry. They will notice me, they will love me - they will spread my word unto the masses.
The London Book Fair fills the two giant conference centres of Earl's Court. I wander between the stalls, a bazaar-like array of wonders and hidden treasures... endless possibilites, all that I could want. These are my people, they brush shoulders with me, they talk and do business.
One of them even gave me a free notebook. Rock on!
After two seminars I am pumped. My first appointment with Random House draws near. I go to their stand and proudly announce my name.
"Who?" says the bewildered girl.
"Greg Corcoran."
She looks at her notes, "No, sorry, you're not down here."
"It's with Jane Kirby."
"Oh, you better check with her."
I run up the escalator and find Jane Kirby, talking to other important people.
"Who?" barks Jane.
"Greg Corcoran"
"Never heard of you."
"I booked an appointment with you... through the website."
"Sorry, but that means nothing to me."
I get the same story from Harper Collins. The website was a facade... the appointment booking system has been ignored...
I have been ignored.
I feel the weight of every book in the fair fall upon me. The horrible truth dawns: this is not a fair for students.... this is a fair for business and buyers. No one will talk to me... no one will acknoweldge me...
I end the day snivelling in the corner and looking up at Blake Morrison as he gives a talk, dispensing words of wisdom with a gentle smile. The man I will never be... the grace I will never know...
I begin scribbling a song in my free notebook. At least I'll get something out of these bastards.
Then my phone beeps. I have pissed off another girl - she is London too and she wants to talk. I tell her I'm with Maria... she stops talking to me.
I'm a bad man. I'm a failed man.
Maria takes me to an Italian restaurant to cheer me up. Our waiter has an argument with the chef and the head waiter, Polish obscenities spewing back and forth. Me and Maria sneak out whilst they are confronting each other in the kitchen. Maybe the waiter had been to the Book Fair today as well.
Finally, we return to the hotel of doom with comfort-Starbucks and consolation-brownies. I turn on the TV and watch a young James Woods kick the shit out of sexy vampires.
But it's not enough. I feel like a ginger kid, held upside down, my head smashed against a cabinet.
"I hate you." I mutter at the industry as I drift into sleep.
Monday, 14 April 2008
Truth Attempted: Indecisive Greg and the Hotel of Doom
After waking up and battering the ginger kids during a passionate session on the Wii, Maria and I set off for the bright lights of London.... after she puts on her hat, scarf, sunglasses, coat, gloves, wrap, shawl, jumper and waterproofs.
We leave the car in a lovely suburb of Croydon and then descend into the dark and festering pits of hell... or so we thought. For an hour later we find ourselves standing in a very posh part of London, surrounded by old and lavish homes with railed gardens and orchards. Women with poodles walk past us, sneering through their sunglasses, whilst businessmen in coats glance at us and dial two 9s on their mobile phones.
I am half-expecting Hugh Grant to throw boiling coffee over me then invite me back to his place for socially-controversial sodomy.
But all is well - we have simply gone the wrong way. We backtrack and find ourselves moving into the decaying underbelly of the Earl's Court area. The poodles become rats, the white men become Asian, the businessmen have two 9s tattooed to their heads, denoting their killcount.
At last we are stood in the Crown Hotel, seeking entrance to the hallowed crypts of leisure's antiquity. The generic receptionist stares at us with hollow eyes and hands over the key, jabbering about the legends of Breakfast.
I forge ahead, the carpets throwing up white powder around my every footstep. The floorboards creak, the wallpaper peels aggressively to left and right. There are booby-traps on every corner. I grip Maria's hand as she trembles beneath her padded layers. Wrenching her from the dying elevator we stumble through the twisting hallways, ethnic minorities jabbering from the alcoves like harbingers of doom.
Finally, room 214. I jam the key into the lock and utter the sacred verse of optimism.
"I'm sure it won't be that bad. I'm sure it won't be that bad."
Curses! We are undone! They have lured us into a trap - a chamber where the walls close in upon us!
No, I am mistaken. It's just a very small room. We set our cases down between the walls and gaze upon the face of decay.
"It'll do." mumbles Maria.
I open my laptop and start hacking into their network.
We leave the car in a lovely suburb of Croydon and then descend into the dark and festering pits of hell... or so we thought. For an hour later we find ourselves standing in a very posh part of London, surrounded by old and lavish homes with railed gardens and orchards. Women with poodles walk past us, sneering through their sunglasses, whilst businessmen in coats glance at us and dial two 9s on their mobile phones.
I am half-expecting Hugh Grant to throw boiling coffee over me then invite me back to his place for socially-controversial sodomy.
But all is well - we have simply gone the wrong way. We backtrack and find ourselves moving into the decaying underbelly of the Earl's Court area. The poodles become rats, the white men become Asian, the businessmen have two 9s tattooed to their heads, denoting their killcount.
At last we are stood in the Crown Hotel, seeking entrance to the hallowed crypts of leisure's antiquity. The generic receptionist stares at us with hollow eyes and hands over the key, jabbering about the legends of Breakfast.
I forge ahead, the carpets throwing up white powder around my every footstep. The floorboards creak, the wallpaper peels aggressively to left and right. There are booby-traps on every corner. I grip Maria's hand as she trembles beneath her padded layers. Wrenching her from the dying elevator we stumble through the twisting hallways, ethnic minorities jabbering from the alcoves like harbingers of doom.
Finally, room 214. I jam the key into the lock and utter the sacred verse of optimism.
"I'm sure it won't be that bad. I'm sure it won't be that bad."
Curses! We are undone! They have lured us into a trap - a chamber where the walls close in upon us!
No, I am mistaken. It's just a very small room. We set our cases down between the walls and gaze upon the face of decay.
"It'll do." mumbles Maria.
I open my laptop and start hacking into their network.
Sunday, 13 April 2008
Truth Attempted: The London Book Fair
The London Book Fair, 2008 - a chance to meet the experts of the Writing Industry. A chance to get published, for all your dreams to come true!
I have been suspended for 3 weeks now.
I arrive at Maria's house in Newquay at 11 o'clock. I am carrying my letter from work: a full disciplinary hearing has been set up for the day I return.
I'm a bad man. I abused a kid in care - I swore at a 17 year old with Tourettes. Gross misconduct, violation of protocols, undue emotion. I should have withdrawn - left the kid in the supermarket after he'd threatened to smash my face in. But I didn't: I stood up to him: I called his bluff - I told him to hit me. The bluff worked - the kid backed down. But I got reported.
I'm a bad man. A carer with no boundaries. A loose canon with a heart of fire.
I steal Maria's toast as she gets me insured on her car. I then wait patiently in the hallway as she layers herself like a packhorse ready for the journey. Jumper, scarf, hat, jewellery, another scarf, a wrap, gloves, sunglasses, waterbottle, coat...
"We're going to Southampton first." she mumbles through the folds of her clothes, "It's my sister in law's birthday."
Kids...lots of kids... ginger kids. I remember the last time, when I became a surrogate climbing frame and punchbag. We'll be staying the night as well. I picture the questions: Are you and Auntie Maria getting married? Why did you steal our Auntie? Why aren't you working anymore? Why does Auntie Maria have bruises?
I'm a bad man.
We set off on the road. I talk about my suspension, my reasons for what I did. I remember when I left the army, when I walked out of the Marriott, when I wrote an irrelevant dissertation for my BA. For all my love of structures and frameworks, I have a history of rebellion.
"It's okay," I remark cheerfully to Maria, "We could be published by the end of this weekend. We won't have to worry about jobs ever again."
Maria looks at me through the thin slit between her scarf, hat and coat... the same look I got from the Head of Children's Services... one of total incomprehension and digust.
I'm a bad man.
At 9pm that evening, I am sitting in a nicely furnished lounge. A young girl is screaming at me.
"I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU!"
She was the casualty. I was set upon by seven children, four of them ginger, so I had to break through the blockade and throw the little clingy bastards onto a sofa. The girl in question was at the bottom of the pile. She is hurt and she is angry...
"I HATE YOUUUUUU!"
I'm a bad man.
I smile at Maria and try to continue conversation as a vengefulness of Hamlet-esque proportions brews on the other side of the room.
Later on, Beth, the daughter of Maria's sister-in-law, saunters in, her hyper-intelligent eyes fixing me.
I've always liked Beth. She's a smart one.
"I hate you." she says calmly.
"Oh... right...."
"But that could change."
"...okay..."
"You have to make me like you."
I fidget in my seat.
"You have to pick me up and hold me upside down."
"Right..."
I pick her up and hold her upside down.
"Now you have to walk over to the sofa and put me there. But you have to walk smoothly - no bouncy movements."
I follow her instructions precisely, and promptly slam her head against the cabinet near the sofa. She falls out of my grip and crashes into the fireplace.
"... sorry." I say.
She stands up and looks at me, "Carry on." she says quietly.
I pick her up and toss her onto the sofa.
"Okay, I like you now."
I'm a good man.
I have been suspended for 3 weeks now.
I arrive at Maria's house in Newquay at 11 o'clock. I am carrying my letter from work: a full disciplinary hearing has been set up for the day I return.
I'm a bad man. I abused a kid in care - I swore at a 17 year old with Tourettes. Gross misconduct, violation of protocols, undue emotion. I should have withdrawn - left the kid in the supermarket after he'd threatened to smash my face in. But I didn't: I stood up to him: I called his bluff - I told him to hit me. The bluff worked - the kid backed down. But I got reported.
I'm a bad man. A carer with no boundaries. A loose canon with a heart of fire.
I steal Maria's toast as she gets me insured on her car. I then wait patiently in the hallway as she layers herself like a packhorse ready for the journey. Jumper, scarf, hat, jewellery, another scarf, a wrap, gloves, sunglasses, waterbottle, coat...
"We're going to Southampton first." she mumbles through the folds of her clothes, "It's my sister in law's birthday."
Kids...lots of kids... ginger kids. I remember the last time, when I became a surrogate climbing frame and punchbag. We'll be staying the night as well. I picture the questions: Are you and Auntie Maria getting married? Why did you steal our Auntie? Why aren't you working anymore? Why does Auntie Maria have bruises?
I'm a bad man.
We set off on the road. I talk about my suspension, my reasons for what I did. I remember when I left the army, when I walked out of the Marriott, when I wrote an irrelevant dissertation for my BA. For all my love of structures and frameworks, I have a history of rebellion.
"It's okay," I remark cheerfully to Maria, "We could be published by the end of this weekend. We won't have to worry about jobs ever again."
Maria looks at me through the thin slit between her scarf, hat and coat... the same look I got from the Head of Children's Services... one of total incomprehension and digust.
I'm a bad man.
At 9pm that evening, I am sitting in a nicely furnished lounge. A young girl is screaming at me.
"I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU!"
She was the casualty. I was set upon by seven children, four of them ginger, so I had to break through the blockade and throw the little clingy bastards onto a sofa. The girl in question was at the bottom of the pile. She is hurt and she is angry...
"I HATE YOUUUUUU!"
I'm a bad man.
I smile at Maria and try to continue conversation as a vengefulness of Hamlet-esque proportions brews on the other side of the room.
Later on, Beth, the daughter of Maria's sister-in-law, saunters in, her hyper-intelligent eyes fixing me.
I've always liked Beth. She's a smart one.
"I hate you." she says calmly.
"Oh... right...."
"But that could change."
"...okay..."
"You have to make me like you."
I fidget in my seat.
"You have to pick me up and hold me upside down."
"Right..."
I pick her up and hold her upside down.
"Now you have to walk over to the sofa and put me there. But you have to walk smoothly - no bouncy movements."
I follow her instructions precisely, and promptly slam her head against the cabinet near the sofa. She falls out of my grip and crashes into the fireplace.
"... sorry." I say.
She stands up and looks at me, "Carry on." she says quietly.
I pick her up and toss her onto the sofa.
"Okay, I like you now."
I'm a good man.
Monday, 7 April 2008
Truth Attempted: Rogue Carer
"You're outta line, Corcoran!" shouts the Head of Children's Services, jabbing his podgy finger at me. I sit on the other side of the desk, smoking a cigar with roguish ease.
"I get results, Chief, and you know it."
"Bullshit!" yells Chief Collins, "That kid is under our protection. He's a child in care for God's sake! You can't swear at him!"
"That kid..." I retort, getting out of my chair and leaning towards the burly chief, "...threatened to attack me in a public supermarket. I did what I had to do. You've been stuck behind that desk too long, Chief - you don't know what it's like out there, on the street."
"I got social services on me! I got his mother on me! I got CSCI and the Directors breathing down my neck! They want someone's ass, and it's gonna be yours, Corcoran - ya hear me?!"
"Go ahead!" I shout, tossing my badge on the desk, "But know this, Chief: that kid leaves Care in 3 months and he still thinks he can threaten people in public and get away with it. So you're right - I didn't back down, I didn't follow procedure. I squared up to him, and I told him to back the fuck down. That's what happens out there in the real world. If losing my job is the price I pay to teach that kid some real-life consequences, then that's the price I pay. I'd rather act like a human being than some goddam machine!"
I flick my cigar away and storm out of the office. The Chief yells out after me, "You're suspended Corcoran! You go near a care home, I'll bust you! You try to sneak in and care for those kids illegally, I'll bust you! You wipe anyone's ass in my precinct without permission, I'll bust you!"
"You can't stop me caring, Chief!" I yell back, flicking him the finger and then striding to the carpark.
"I get results, Chief, and you know it."
"Bullshit!" yells Chief Collins, "That kid is under our protection. He's a child in care for God's sake! You can't swear at him!"
"That kid..." I retort, getting out of my chair and leaning towards the burly chief, "...threatened to attack me in a public supermarket. I did what I had to do. You've been stuck behind that desk too long, Chief - you don't know what it's like out there, on the street."
"I got social services on me! I got his mother on me! I got CSCI and the Directors breathing down my neck! They want someone's ass, and it's gonna be yours, Corcoran - ya hear me?!"
"Go ahead!" I shout, tossing my badge on the desk, "But know this, Chief: that kid leaves Care in 3 months and he still thinks he can threaten people in public and get away with it. So you're right - I didn't back down, I didn't follow procedure. I squared up to him, and I told him to back the fuck down. That's what happens out there in the real world. If losing my job is the price I pay to teach that kid some real-life consequences, then that's the price I pay. I'd rather act like a human being than some goddam machine!"
I flick my cigar away and storm out of the office. The Chief yells out after me, "You're suspended Corcoran! You go near a care home, I'll bust you! You try to sneak in and care for those kids illegally, I'll bust you! You wipe anyone's ass in my precinct without permission, I'll bust you!"
"You can't stop me caring, Chief!" I yell back, flicking him the finger and then striding to the carpark.
Sunday, 24 February 2008
Girlfriend Attempted: No longer lonely
I have of late been remiss. Long weeks since I last wrote here. I thought to draw you to an end, but it was not to be. This series will continue.
Tonight, my story is no longer lonely. It joins the others and with them is characterised by that distinct element - that thing beyond sadness or tragedy that strings together my past chapters. The idea that there is something to be learned, in preparation for something to come.
And so she... now... a foundation. A scaffold. It feels so hard to think of her as that.
Between my last post and this I thought I had found someone. And I thought the heavy complications of who she was to be a test for me, or a flaw to make this happy ending human. I thought this new chapter to be a different one, lonely, nothing like the others that ended so poorly.
But no. And now I sit here and pack my feelings up behind these words. Like I have always done, knowing that the heat will pass. Knowing that all the heartache will be twisted into this.... this art that I use.... these words.... this godforesaken talent, mask, whatever the fuck it is.
I am taught by my tutors that novels should have emotion; that we should be shown (and never told) the character's passions in flame, his actions desperate, his screams and worthy acts. But life pales. I have this weekend endured such heights, but not even my face has moved too much.
Two nights of extreme impulse, answered by a slight burn in the chest, a frown. Nothing more. And now I sit behind a fucking laptop, between the solitaire game and the DVD that will drown my thoughts for the night, and I type out this pathetic line of drivel, as if it should mean something. As if it will show all the emotions that I could never daub the storybook pages with.
This is it. This is my ordeal, my moment of high emotion and crisis. My defining character revelation. On Saturday, when I thought that I could have her, I argued with my friends at work, threatening to quit unless they gave me the time off, for a party where I would see her. A child throwing his toys from the pram.
On Saturday night, at the party, I learned that I was loved by another. Truly loved, eternally loved, loved so much that she could not fucking stand to see me with another. And I dispelled this woman with a few words and pleasantries, barely breaking a sweat. Every word came easy, no challenge, no doubt - turning her away as easily as I have been discarded by others.
And now, tonight, I have decided to step away from the one that I wanted, and with her I have agreed that we could never be, that we were not right together. I ate whilst typing, my appetite perfect, a tune in my head, writing college assignments on the side.
No fires, no screams, no heroes or bold speeches.
And tonight, three people are lonely in their beds. One wants me, I want another, the other searches, and all three of us fear to hurt each other.
It was never meant to be this difficult. I was never meant to be so dead, here amongst such cause, such provocation. This love and this despair that should lift me to a poet's rage, but instead I sit and place a DVD in my laptop and pour my wine. Just like all the others who have loved and lost in these weeks.
Drowning ourselves.
My Lord, your characters lack depth. I suggest you find a new editor.
What am I to learn from this? How may I lay this, as ground to build upon?
Why does it hurt so much and show so little?
I think of a beach, two weeks ago, a girl in my arms. A kiss. And I smile and think myself blessed. Why should I do such a thing, be so thankful for that one moment of a relationship now shattered?
I think of a room, long ago, a blank red wall, a child screaming.
I never thought that I would have anything like this. I never thought that I would hurt this way, so alive, so powerful. After all the things that terrified me, this... this is exquisite.
God, I would do anything for these people. Anything.
Tonight, my story is no longer lonely. It joins the others and with them is characterised by that distinct element - that thing beyond sadness or tragedy that strings together my past chapters. The idea that there is something to be learned, in preparation for something to come.
And so she... now... a foundation. A scaffold. It feels so hard to think of her as that.
Between my last post and this I thought I had found someone. And I thought the heavy complications of who she was to be a test for me, or a flaw to make this happy ending human. I thought this new chapter to be a different one, lonely, nothing like the others that ended so poorly.
But no. And now I sit here and pack my feelings up behind these words. Like I have always done, knowing that the heat will pass. Knowing that all the heartache will be twisted into this.... this art that I use.... these words.... this godforesaken talent, mask, whatever the fuck it is.
I am taught by my tutors that novels should have emotion; that we should be shown (and never told) the character's passions in flame, his actions desperate, his screams and worthy acts. But life pales. I have this weekend endured such heights, but not even my face has moved too much.
Two nights of extreme impulse, answered by a slight burn in the chest, a frown. Nothing more. And now I sit behind a fucking laptop, between the solitaire game and the DVD that will drown my thoughts for the night, and I type out this pathetic line of drivel, as if it should mean something. As if it will show all the emotions that I could never daub the storybook pages with.
This is it. This is my ordeal, my moment of high emotion and crisis. My defining character revelation. On Saturday, when I thought that I could have her, I argued with my friends at work, threatening to quit unless they gave me the time off, for a party where I would see her. A child throwing his toys from the pram.
On Saturday night, at the party, I learned that I was loved by another. Truly loved, eternally loved, loved so much that she could not fucking stand to see me with another. And I dispelled this woman with a few words and pleasantries, barely breaking a sweat. Every word came easy, no challenge, no doubt - turning her away as easily as I have been discarded by others.
And now, tonight, I have decided to step away from the one that I wanted, and with her I have agreed that we could never be, that we were not right together. I ate whilst typing, my appetite perfect, a tune in my head, writing college assignments on the side.
No fires, no screams, no heroes or bold speeches.
And tonight, three people are lonely in their beds. One wants me, I want another, the other searches, and all three of us fear to hurt each other.
It was never meant to be this difficult. I was never meant to be so dead, here amongst such cause, such provocation. This love and this despair that should lift me to a poet's rage, but instead I sit and place a DVD in my laptop and pour my wine. Just like all the others who have loved and lost in these weeks.
Drowning ourselves.
My Lord, your characters lack depth. I suggest you find a new editor.
What am I to learn from this? How may I lay this, as ground to build upon?
Why does it hurt so much and show so little?
I think of a beach, two weeks ago, a girl in my arms. A kiss. And I smile and think myself blessed. Why should I do such a thing, be so thankful for that one moment of a relationship now shattered?
I think of a room, long ago, a blank red wall, a child screaming.
I never thought that I would have anything like this. I never thought that I would hurt this way, so alive, so powerful. After all the things that terrified me, this... this is exquisite.
God, I would do anything for these people. Anything.
Monday, 21 January 2008
Girlfriend Attempted: Fuel-leak
0830: Bath time
0900: Get dressed
0905: Breakfast
0910: Wash dishes
0915: Clean teeth
0916: Toilet
0917: Watch cars through window for 10 minutes
0927: TV and Video till Daddy arrives
1030: Daddy
2030: Bath time
2100: Supper
2105: Wash dishes
2110: Clean teeth
2111: Toilet
2113: TV and Video till 2145
2145: Lights out.
I sit at the table, watching our "least able" kid write up his activities for tomorrow. He has already made me feel like shit by refusing all help with his self-care. I even offered to wipe his arse for him, but he refused. He doesn't need me anymore. He even reminded me to get him a towel. Cheeky bastard.
As I sit there and watch him plan his next day, I ponder asking him for dating advice. Surely he has a step-by-step list. It would certainly help. But it's too late. He goes into the toilet, clicking his stop watch and then dropping his trousers. Conversation time is over.
That night, I attempt to outdo the cocky git and write my own list.
0900: Get up
0905: Ring garage about my car
0930: Pick up car and drive to Somerset
1200: Stop for lunch
1400: Arrive in Taunton for Speed Workshop
1600: Drive back home and write Chapter 7 of novel on the way
2000: Go to gym on way back.
2200: Bed and self-restraint.
The next day I stagger downstairs at 0927. The garage reports that my car has a fuel leak. The tank is rusted through. They will call me back with an estimate of price.
I call the Speed Workshop and explain my predicament. They rebook my appointment.
"I can do any day except a Tuesday."
"Okay, our next available slot is February 12th."
"Is that a Tuesday?"
"Yes."
"So many how many points will I lose on my licence?"
"We'll phone you back. Please send a check for £30"
"Why?"
"To pay for the workshop."
"But I'm not coming to the workshop."
"We still need the £30"
"I've already paid you £90"
"And we need another £30"
I put down the phone. It rings.
"£215 for a new fuel tank, Sir." says the Garage.
I put the phone down. It's 0945.
Bollox! I forgot to post my college assignment. BOLLOX, I left the tutor's email address at work. I text Maria.
"Hi, I'm going to the beach!" she replies.
"Answer my question!" I shout. I then realise I didn't send the message I was shouting about.
"What's Martin's email???"
"I'm not on that course."
I put the phone down. It's 1030.
The phone rings.
"Hello."
"Oh sorry, wrong number."
"No it's not. Hi, Vanessa."
"Sorry?"
"How are you?"
"Wait, is that Norman?"
"No, it's Greg."
"I'm sorry, I don't know you."
"Yes you do, Vanessa. I'm your daughter's housemate."
"I'm not Vanessa."
"Oh... you sound like her..."
"Is that 374455?"
"Yes."
"What are you doing in Norman's house?"
"This is my house! Wait... no, I'm 374445."
"Oh, okay. Sorry dear."
"That's fine."
I put the phone down. I make lunch.
I surf the internet as I let my lunch go down.
It goes down a long way.
It's 1500. I write some novel openings and then decide to have a shower. In the shower I come up with a new song. The cats approve. I surf the internet to find the song that I've ripped off, and am pleased to find that it sounds nothing like my song. Excellent.
It's 1700. I have early dinner, so that I can go to the gym. The plan is to do some upper body workout. Pecs = sex. I'll have a girlfriend in no time.
I let my dinner go down. I write a short post for the website about an angel torturing a demon because the demon stole his wife, who's now a sword, which he's using to torture the demon. I then have an argument with a 14 year old who wants to have a World War Two soldier with electricity for blood.
Its 2000. My housemate gets home and patronizes me, while the cats kick the shit out of each other. After a quick coffee and a bitch about the kids, she goes to bed.
It's 2100. I decide the write a blog.
Only half an hour before the gym closes...
Right, 45 press-ups and 90 sit-ups before bed.
What woman could resist me?
0900: Get dressed
0905: Breakfast
0910: Wash dishes
0915: Clean teeth
0916: Toilet
0917: Watch cars through window for 10 minutes
0927: TV and Video till Daddy arrives
1030: Daddy
2030: Bath time
2100: Supper
2105: Wash dishes
2110: Clean teeth
2111: Toilet
2113: TV and Video till 2145
2145: Lights out.
I sit at the table, watching our "least able" kid write up his activities for tomorrow. He has already made me feel like shit by refusing all help with his self-care. I even offered to wipe his arse for him, but he refused. He doesn't need me anymore. He even reminded me to get him a towel. Cheeky bastard.
As I sit there and watch him plan his next day, I ponder asking him for dating advice. Surely he has a step-by-step list. It would certainly help. But it's too late. He goes into the toilet, clicking his stop watch and then dropping his trousers. Conversation time is over.
That night, I attempt to outdo the cocky git and write my own list.
0900: Get up
0905: Ring garage about my car
0930: Pick up car and drive to Somerset
1200: Stop for lunch
1400: Arrive in Taunton for Speed Workshop
1600: Drive back home and write Chapter 7 of novel on the way
2000: Go to gym on way back.
2200: Bed and self-restraint.
The next day I stagger downstairs at 0927. The garage reports that my car has a fuel leak. The tank is rusted through. They will call me back with an estimate of price.
I call the Speed Workshop and explain my predicament. They rebook my appointment.
"I can do any day except a Tuesday."
"Okay, our next available slot is February 12th."
"Is that a Tuesday?"
"Yes."
"So many how many points will I lose on my licence?"
"We'll phone you back. Please send a check for £30"
"Why?"
"To pay for the workshop."
"But I'm not coming to the workshop."
"We still need the £30"
"I've already paid you £90"
"And we need another £30"
I put down the phone. It rings.
"£215 for a new fuel tank, Sir." says the Garage.
I put the phone down. It's 0945.
Bollox! I forgot to post my college assignment. BOLLOX, I left the tutor's email address at work. I text Maria.
"Hi, I'm going to the beach!" she replies.
"Answer my question!" I shout. I then realise I didn't send the message I was shouting about.
"What's Martin's email???"
"I'm not on that course."
I put the phone down. It's 1030.
The phone rings.
"Hello."
"Oh sorry, wrong number."
"No it's not. Hi, Vanessa."
"Sorry?"
"How are you?"
"Wait, is that Norman?"
"No, it's Greg."
"I'm sorry, I don't know you."
"Yes you do, Vanessa. I'm your daughter's housemate."
"I'm not Vanessa."
"Oh... you sound like her..."
"Is that 374455?"
"Yes."
"What are you doing in Norman's house?"
"This is my house! Wait... no, I'm 374445."
"Oh, okay. Sorry dear."
"That's fine."
I put the phone down. I make lunch.
I surf the internet as I let my lunch go down.
It goes down a long way.
It's 1500. I write some novel openings and then decide to have a shower. In the shower I come up with a new song. The cats approve. I surf the internet to find the song that I've ripped off, and am pleased to find that it sounds nothing like my song. Excellent.
It's 1700. I have early dinner, so that I can go to the gym. The plan is to do some upper body workout. Pecs = sex. I'll have a girlfriend in no time.
I let my dinner go down. I write a short post for the website about an angel torturing a demon because the demon stole his wife, who's now a sword, which he's using to torture the demon. I then have an argument with a 14 year old who wants to have a World War Two soldier with electricity for blood.
Its 2000. My housemate gets home and patronizes me, while the cats kick the shit out of each other. After a quick coffee and a bitch about the kids, she goes to bed.
It's 2100. I decide the write a blog.
Only half an hour before the gym closes...
Right, 45 press-ups and 90 sit-ups before bed.
What woman could resist me?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)