I have been writing since my last update about my new novel The Twelfth Rune. It's coming along although I have been suffering from a cold, a cough and a thick head, so I will not suggest its been coming in leaps and bounds. More like little increments as my brain lightens up enough to let some words flow.
The main problem is just feeling tired all the time and not having the energy to think beyond watching something on YouTube and just longing out.
I've been having a bit of fun on Facebook. Because my new website has a blog facility I was wondering if I really needed to close these blogs down and start another new one on the website. It was draining just to think about it. Then someone asked a similar question and posted that they were going to use their blog to allow their characters some freedom, so the blog could fill in back stories and so on.
Bingo I thought. So I posted this.
Dear Ann, Please consider this my application to steal the shit out of your idea. I have been wondering how to start my blog on my new website and my mind has been a blank. I, with your gracious permission, of course, will use my main characters voice - so it's not my blog, I don't need ideas - it's his. Yours plagerismly Rob
So then I started doodling a bit an idea for my blog and posted this:
My blog is gonna be so good, so very very good, I'm going to write bigly, I mean that literally it's going to be so so great, it'll be the best blog ever, I mean that, I see words, great words, words like you have never seen words, it'll be great, people will love it, love the words, mark my words, they'll be vetted and checked and edited. They will be edited so so hard that some won't even be allowed into my blog, thats how hard it will be. It'll be great believe me.
It seemed to be popular and someone asked me this.
Are you going to build a wall around your blog?
And I answered thusly.
I will build a wall and it will be a great wall, it will be a wonder wall, a wall of wonder, back beat the word will be on the street. It'll be so so great so fantastic, It'll be there until the fire in your heart is out. Really. I love our fantastic firefighters. Really love those guys. Girls too. I just wanna say that. Look I'm sure you've heard it all before, but I just wanna say it again and again. I have no doubts it will be fantastic, really great and you'll never really have a doubt. I don't believe that anybody especially the media with their fake news about my wall, my wonder wall, feels the way I do about it now. I feel great, I love it, I love you all, my Blog is great. Its an alternative fact that I haven't started it. So so bad. I have eleventy billion readers right now. At this moment. Its so so popular. And after all it's my wonder wall. Today was gonna be the day...
But I had my detractors who commented
Don't listen to crooked Rob and the fake news media, my blog is gonna be amazing, simply amazing and run by top people, the best people, better people than you, that's right, we're gonna lock up crooked Rob and his so called blog, we're gonna lock him up, then build a wall around him and make mexico pay for it
I retorted
Look I like Greg I really really do. Great guy. Love his family too. Lovely family nice nice family. And his daughter. Lovely. Just 19, so so very young. I've known him a long long time really, I have, been to his house, lovely, nice daughter. Great friend. You know why I like him? He wasn't captured in Vietnam. Fantastic. a Hero. American hero. Keeps America great by not being captured by the gooks. Right. Look he does a great job. A fantastic job. Calls Putin daily by the way. Collect. Putin pays. its great. I love him. He works so so hard for me. Greg - you're fired!
Oh the fun you can have with words... and a Trump - et.
Monday, February 20, 2017
Friday, February 10, 2017
Thursday, February 02, 2017
10 THINGS TO REMEMBER ABOUT ST VALENTINES DAY
I have just noticed that we are in the month of February. It sends shivers of fear down my spine. For February is that month, that month when we men must, above all the other months, have our wits about us. We must, when speaking with our significant other, understand every nuance of what they say to us, we must listen carefully to every sentence, analyse every word and notice every glance, every slight wrinkle of worry and doubt upon their brow, every soft sigh. We must be sure that we dredge up some romantic spark and fulfil their unspoken wishes, albeit that none of us are psychic and must fulfil these unspoken desires even though they are – unspoken!
Yes my fellow men the month of St. Valentine is upon us.
Yes my fellow men the month of St. Valentine is upon us.
St Valentine looking sad and worried because he forgot to buy her chocolate
10 things to remember about St Valentines Day
1. St. Valentine suffered a grisly death at the hands of the Romans. This serves to remind us men what will happen to us should, by some simple twist of fate, or sudden onrush of Alzheimer's disease, we forget the day
2. Saint Valentine is also the patron saint of epilepsy. No doubt this condition was bought on by the amount of money he had to spend on Cards, Chocolates, Flowers, Sexy underwear and other trinkets in the annual attempt to convince his partner that he is truly in love with her – and at a time, I might add, when the credit card and the bank balance are still suffering from exactly the same exercise at Christmas.
3. Lovebirds are tiny African parrots that carry disease. Therefore, although initially this seems like a romantic and apt gift for your lover, they are likely to contract psittacosis. This condition can cause fever, chills, weakness and fatigue, chest pain and loss of appetite, all of which are classic symptoms of being in love and will for a short period engender some sympathy if not out and out fawning. But as soon as the vomiting, diarrhoea, headaches and sweating start you can be sure this would be a Valentines to remember.
4. Hallmark Cards generates $4 billion in sales and charges an average $2.95 or more for a greeting card at retail while it costs the company a mere seven cents to manufacture the card. However, it is a huge mistake (see No 1) to recycle last year’s card. Don't attempt to make one unless you went to a top arts college or god forbid, forget.
5. Roman youths drew the names of girls who would be their partners during Lupercalia. This custom was Christianized and spread to Europe, England and Germany. The modern name for this is ‘swinging’. It is doubtful that your partner would be thrilled if you suggested this as a Valentines treat unless of course she is Swedish or German, where this sort of thing goes on non stop – or so I’m told. I’m not sure about what happens in the Americas.
6. Do not present your secret or intended loved one with a bouquet of Bay leaf, although this is the Valentine symbol of ‘hope’, she is more likely to interpret this as a request for a stew or soup of some kind. Better the Gardenia: ‘I love you in secret’ or the traditional Rose: ‘I love you passionately’. Although the Persians believe that ‘at night a nightingale flew toward the white rose attracted by its fragrance. He was pierced by the thorns and his blood dyed the flower red’. So not a nice image to plight your troth with.
7. One explanation for not buying chocolate this year is that the Roman equivalent of Valentine is Lupercus, the Greed god. Telling your partner (symbolically) that she is a greedy bitch whose cellulite is getting out of control is not the real message of Valentines Day is it?
8. Apparently ‘Diamonds are a girls best friend’ and are popular gifts for women during Valentines. This is perhaps because the diamond derives its name from the Greek adamas, "untameable" or "unconquerable", referring to its hardness. Similar traits to those we find in women. They may well get all soft and dewy eyed upon reciving such a gift and we men may strike it lucky that evening, but beware, these traits will re appear as soon as normal service is resumed on February 15th.
9. Apparently food is the key to expressing love and going out for a meal on Valentines Day is popular. According to one website Lobster is very popular. Last year in the UK there were 90,000 reported instances of food poisoning. Even under the best of circumstances, eating lobsters can be a public health risk. Seafood is the number one cause of food poisoning in the United States, and shellfish are involved in more than 66 percent of all seafood-related illnesses. In fact, as much as 10 percent of raw shellfish are infected with organisms that can cause hepatitis, salmonella poisoning, cholera, and even death. Maybe Valentines is the night to stay in, protect the credit card and have some Pasta! She’ll love you for being so thoughtful.
10. Cupid and Psyche, once together, (it’s a bit of a yarn) had a daughter born to them whose name was Pleasure. A lovely story of true romance but let this be a warning to all you young lovers out there, a few glasses of champagne, half a lobster and some chocolate pudding, if you survive the food poisoning, you’ll end up pregnant and be paying for it for the rest of your lives. A daughter called Pleasure, I think not. Maybe a daughter called Wilful, Disobedient, Headstrong and ‘You’re not going out in a skirt that short are you’?
So men, muster your courage, grab that box of dairy milk, and the wilting bunch of twelve roses from the garage forecourt, strengthen your resolve and with beating heart, bend your knee and pledge yourself to your loved one.
You know it makes sense.
BTW - Check out my new website Rob Burton
Tuesday, January 31, 2017
The Twelfth Rune - a new WIP
The big news is that I have started work on my second novel. It's called The Twelfth Rune. Once again it follows the adventures of Charlie Simpson, his wife Annie and of course the Scottish ghost Nye.
This time they are in Cornwall. They live in a cottage just outside of Marazion overlooking St Michael's Mount. Annie is a artist who makes jewellery from local amethysts to sell to the tourists in her shop in Penzance. Charlie has been trying his hand at writing and has his third novel currently with the publishers.
They find the amethysts by scavenging the mining tips that are scattered across Bodmin Moor.
We pick up the story with Snooky stuck down a hole.
This time they are in Cornwall. They live in a cottage just outside of Marazion overlooking St Michael's Mount. Annie is a artist who makes jewellery from local amethysts to sell to the tourists in her shop in Penzance. Charlie has been trying his hand at writing and has his third novel currently with the publishers.
They find the amethysts by scavenging the mining tips that are scattered across Bodmin Moor.
*****
We pick up the story with Snooky stuck down a hole.
I pulled the
white cloying soil away from her and found that her muzzle was caught up in
what looked like wire netting. It
was probably old mining waste.
Snooky whined a little as I gently started to pull the wire away from
her. She wriggled wanting to get away.
The wire gave way and I passed Snooky out of the largish hole we were in
to Annie.
It was then that
I became aware of a high-pitched sound that was almost out of my hearing
range. I shook my head and tried
to focus my hearing. Was it
tinnitus? It certainly was a high
frequency, was that what Snooky was following? I started to feel a little lightheaded.
‘Hey Annie can
you hear that?’ I poked at my ears.
‘What?’ She was
busy trying to hold a wriggling dog that was attempting to lick her face.
‘That noise, I
can hear a noise, sort of high pitched whirring noise, can you?’
She looked
puzzled. ‘No, perhaps it’s that.’ She pointed to a mobile phone mast on top of
a nearby Tor.
The noise seemed
to make everything brighter. I looked to the back of the hole I was stood in
and something didn’t seem quite right. Lodged in the soil was something a
squareish, something that was out of place.
Square things
with straight edges are not made by nature. This was manmade and it was deep in a spoil heap that could
be a couple of hundred years old.
I was intrigued, but a little irritated by the sounds in my head. I pushed my shovel forward and
started to clear around the object.
It definitely wasn’t mining waste.
I reached down
and pulled what looked like a well-tooled metal box out of its resting place.
It was roughly the size of a Quality Street Christmas tin of chocolates but it
wasn’t square. It vibrated
slightly as I held it. I’d felt
vibrations like that before.
I was in a dark
corridor holding the hypersphere before me waiting for the redhats to tear me to
pieces.
I climbed out of
the hole and made my way down to the bottom of the pile where Annie and Snooky
were waiting for me. Snooky had
her harness on now – she wasn’t getting away again.
When Snooky saw
me place the box on the ground she whimpered and moved away and behind Annie. I
could still hear a high frequency whine in my ears.
Annie coupied
down and rubbed the top of the box with her fingers. ‘What’s this?’ she asked.
I shrugged.
‘Dunno, it was at the bottom of the hole Snooky was in, strange isn’t it?’
‘It looks old’
she said. ‘Is there anything in it?’
I picked it
up. The shape reminded me of
something but I wasn’t quite sure what. I counted the sides. There were
twelve. In my past life I had
trained and worked as an engineer so I knew it was a dodecagon. Interesting.
*****
I'm currently working on Chapter 3 where the Spriggan's make an appearance.(A spriggan is a legendary creature known from Cornish faery lore. Spriggans are particular to West Penwith in Cornwall.) There are going to be a lot of Cornish myths and legends interwoven with Celtic and Biblical mysticism in this story.
Stay tuned.
Re write - re visit - Peaked and Blocked - October 2004.
Rewrite - revisit
MONDAY, OCTOBER 04, 2004
Peaked and Blocked
Peaked!
Oh no! Three blogs in and I think I’ve peaked; maybe I’ve even got Bloggers Block! Where has it all gone wrong? I mean it seems like this is the story of my life! I seem to have peaked too early in every aspect of my life.
Well, of course, not every aspect, I mean come on ladies stop sniggering, I am more than happy in that department thank you so much. I've never had any complaints there! I've never needed those little blue tabs if you get my drift! I've never had to count down from 100 or think about the English cricket team. I’ll stop now because in the words of the great African Playwright Will Shaka Spear (I misquote) methinks I dost protest too much!
Now, in the general area of women, I think I have also peaked too early and thus got blocked. I have been married three times and divorced twice. (2017 update - three for three). I think Oscar Wilde would say something like to lose one wife may be regarded as a misfortune; to lose all three looks like carelessness. I try hard really I do. Now the current wife was fine, a wonderful woman, but I can’t help feeling that perhaps if I’d held out just a little longer I might have got me a pop star like Beyonce, even Kylie, at the least a minor celeb that would be happy at home with me in Sunny Devon rather than having to go charging all over London just to get their photo taken showing their knickers. There is, after all, a photo machine in the Post Office in Okehampton! You see peaked too early and now blocked!
It’s the same with my job. I once had a great job in Brighton. Happening place, happening job. But it soon also became the wrong place at the wrong time, I’d peaked! I do believe that if I had stayed there I would now be the director of the place earning zillions of pounds, be married to Beyonce and living in a big house on the sea front and be friends with Fat Boy and whatever his wife is called. But no now I sit in my office diddling with the computer and sighing loud sighs, but unfortunately there’s no one to hear them.
Oh no! Three blogs in and I think I’ve peaked; maybe I’ve even got Bloggers Block! Where has it all gone wrong? I mean it seems like this is the story of my life! I seem to have peaked too early in every aspect of my life.
Well, of course, not every aspect, I mean come on ladies stop sniggering, I am more than happy in that department thank you so much. I've never had any complaints there! I've never needed those little blue tabs if you get my drift! I've never had to count down from 100 or think about the English cricket team. I’ll stop now because in the words of the great African Playwright Will Shaka Spear (I misquote) methinks I dost protest too much!
Now, in the general area of women, I think I have also peaked too early and thus got blocked. I have been married three times and divorced twice. (2017 update - three for three). I think Oscar Wilde would say something like to lose one wife may be regarded as a misfortune; to lose all three looks like carelessness. I try hard really I do. Now the current wife was fine, a wonderful woman, but I can’t help feeling that perhaps if I’d held out just a little longer I might have got me a pop star like Beyonce, even Kylie, at the least a minor celeb that would be happy at home with me in Sunny Devon rather than having to go charging all over London just to get their photo taken showing their knickers. There is, after all, a photo machine in the Post Office in Okehampton! You see peaked too early and now blocked!
It’s the same with my job. I once had a great job in Brighton. Happening place, happening job. But it soon also became the wrong place at the wrong time, I’d peaked! I do believe that if I had stayed there I would now be the director of the place earning zillions of pounds, be married to Beyonce and living in a big house on the sea front and be friends with Fat Boy and whatever his wife is called. But no now I sit in my office diddling with the computer and sighing loud sighs, but unfortunately there’s no one to hear them.
I did do the three peaks once but that’s an aside about mountains!
So have I peaked! I’ve been thinking about this all weekend. I had my 5 year old daughter home with me, thank goodness I didn’t get blocked where she was concerned (see second para above).(2017 -She is coming on 18 now) She is, I guess, the peak of all my performances and makes me quite glad that I don’t live in Brighton earning zillions of pounds dragging an ungrateful Beyonce or Kylie around waiting for those three minutes for the photos to be developed. I mean get a grip!
No. I much prefer it in Sunny Devon (a bit rainy Devon this weekend) with Matty doing a spot of sheep worrying by shouting ‘Mint Sauce’ at the sheep! Or showing her what jewels you can find when you open the prickly skin of a conker. Or just having a cuddle.
Thursday, January 12, 2017
I Hate Americans
I posted this
on Friday, October 01, 2004. I probably didn't have any idea who Donald
Trump was or who he would become then. I would have had no idea of the
political schisms and the economic crash that would happen to smash the
American Dream. Then I would have no idea that thirteen years later I
would be living and working in China where some of my best friends are -
Americans.
Let me apologise right
now. Friends this is my attempt at humour or just so you understand - humor.
Of course the Americans are hating themselves now - so there is no need for me in 2017 to hate them. Half the country are hating the people that voted Trump in and those that voted Trump in are hating the Hillary supporters. It’s like a cult of personality there. Where celebrities seem to think they are important enough to preach to the rest of the country about who does what and the notion that politicians should have policies to help the country and the people seem to have gone out of the window.
I Hate Americans.
Now I don’t really understand why I wrote that. It sort of just slipped out. I don’t really think that I do hate Americans. I mean how can I as the population is 294,410,526 as of today the 1st October -2004? If I only hated each person for say 10 seconds each I would have to spend the next 9 YEARs hating Americans. But between you and me I have better things to do with my life (But at the moment in 2017 - I still haven’t come up with a definitive list!).
Of course the Americans are hating themselves now - so there is no need for me in 2017 to hate them. Half the country are hating the people that voted Trump in and those that voted Trump in are hating the Hillary supporters. It’s like a cult of personality there. Where celebrities seem to think they are important enough to preach to the rest of the country about who does what and the notion that politicians should have policies to help the country and the people seem to have gone out of the window.
I Hate Americans.
Now I don’t really understand why I wrote that. It sort of just slipped out. I don’t really think that I do hate Americans. I mean how can I as the population is 294,410,526 as of today the 1st October -2004? If I only hated each person for say 10 seconds each I would have to spend the next 9 YEARs hating Americans. But between you and me I have better things to do with my life (But at the moment in 2017 - I still haven’t come up with a definitive list!).
So I need to
analyse my feelings just a little bit more. I mean I quite like the idea of
America and thus should quite like the idea of Americans.
Look the
country was set up as a refuge against religious persecution in Europe and a
way for many English people to escape our mad kings. So the idea of the great
melting pot that welcomes the shivering masses to its shores strikes a chord
with me. I like that. And going back to the 294,410,526 I quite like Americans as
individual people. By that I mean all the Americans I have met (with the
exception of the immigration officials at JFK) I have quite liked too. We even
visited a family in Portland Maine once!
So why don’t I
like Americans as a collective then? Well first off they are just obvious
targets aren’t they. They are just so insular. What is that statistic about the
number of passports per head of population? Blimey the Brits can’t wait to get
out of there country – most of them buying houses in France, Spain (with no
idea about the economic crashes to come, the weak pound decimating their
pensions and of course BREXIT) and all points East and South and not getting on
with their new neighbours if the TV is to be believed!
Another example
is, I sell stuff on ebay, and I am happy to post around the world, provided the
buyer pays the shipping (as the Yanks call it). But so many of them buy my
stuff and then balk at the cost of the postage, they seem to assume that the UK
is a few miles off California or somewhere close where the postage will only
cost a few dollars. Never mind that it has to be put on an aeroplane and flown
there! Perhaps they still have a pony express I don’t know (although I do get a
childish thrill when I get payments from Wells Fargo!)
Okay I am
starting to warm to the subject now. For a country that was set up on the
notions of freedom from persecution and so on, I really do not get their idea
that they can be the world’s police. I mean, apart from sort of helping to end
WW2, and this is only a marginal truth. I know for a fact that the Russian
people seem to believe that it was their huge sacrifices that saw the end of
that conflict. So what else have they managed to do successfully? Korea? Nah!
Grenada? Nah!, That place in Africa with the helicopters? Nah! Vietnam – ah
Vietnam, not a loss but a ‘tactical withdrawal’. Tactical withdrawal my arse or
ass for my American readers! They lost! It’s their bravado then? Perhaps it’s
that that I dislike?
Or their
contribution to world cuisine perhaps? The ubiquitous McD? KFC? And now why o
why do we have to call Treats MnM’s and Marathons, Snickers? And this
inevitably leads to big fat trailer trash women with HUGE bottoms and big Fat
guys too. And now this cultural deficit, the ubiquitousness of fast food is
impacting on our women too!
Okay, I’ll
give you the film industry and some good actors, some marginally good TV
programmes and yes I’ll give them some good, if not great Rock n Roll, Blues
and some terrific writers - step forward James Lee Burke.
But what’s all this red neck stuff up in the Ozark
Mountains or wherever, what’s all this white Aryan nation stuff? All this gun
ownership, the paranoia that someone’s out to get them. So lets waste them
first before they waste us. Baloney! (more bad food!).
And since writing
this we have seen the increase of cops killing black folks, white folks killing
school kids and religious congregations, hell even going to the local restaurant
is a dangerous pastime now - if the news out of America is to be believed.
And another schism he Black Lives Matter issue. against the All Lives
Matter movement anon one but no one dares say White lives matter too
- thank you very much.
And I’m not
even going to mention their (mis)use of the English language. Like you know-
whatever!
Hating
Americans is sort of complicated, it’s not like hating the cat or the next door
neighbours. It’s like a general sense of uneasiness that they are out there
waiting to come and get us. Like a damp fog across Dartmoor in winter, if you
get my drift. I don’t really have time to hate Americans, not all of them
anyway. So maybe like most people George W will have to do, unless you readers
can come up with any more likely candidates? Whatever!
You know what -
I'm going to retract my statement about hating Americans. I don't hate you
guys. In the main I pity you. I hope you can sort it out without resorting
to war and gun play - you tried that once remember?
Monday, January 09, 2017
Writing re-visited - Piercings - at the sharp end of life
In these posts I'm going to revisit old blog posts and see if I can make the writing betterer. And bring it more up to date. Change the tenses etc.
Rewrite.
I worked at a large teaching institution in Sunny Devon. In late September and early October the place teemed with new students all going about their business finding out where the cheapest beer was. One of the perks of having a job in that sort of institution was the look but don’t touch rule. (I broke that one on one or two occasions when I was younger but of course that’s another story!) It was very nice to be able to sit, whilst having one’s sandwiches, and enjoy the sprightly steps and varied body shapes of the young female students innocently wandering around the campus unknowingly being, I think the technical term is, 'letched.'
Anyone who has spent any amount of time doing this and I guess when I say anyone, I mean those of us guys in our advancing years who will glory at the sight of all those uncovered navels and softly swelling bellies. And blimey, if jeans and trouser waists drop any further south we’ll be seeing those things wot we are not meant to! I mean just what are the technical terms for the smooth creases at the top of the inner thighs. I mean those bits that sort of draw your eyes inwards and downwards from the belly to almost – yes almost to the pudenda!
Anyway I digress, see what a minefield this subject is! The whole point of this blog is summer is awaning and soon these very same girls will be covered up in their winter woollies and all we will get to see of them is their faces. So why is it that the uglier the girl is the more facial piercing she’ll have? I mean I just don’t get it. Why do people pierce their bodies? Okay I do have one earlobe pierced, it was done many years ago. And yes I do have a small but tasteful tattoo on my left shoulder (birthday present from ex-wife). And now tattoos up my arms. But facial piercing? Come on. I mean how they kiss; presuming that is someone does actually want to kiss them.
There does seem to be some awful correlation that seems to suggest the uglier the girl is the more piercing she will have. What does that mean? Is she drawing attention to her features saying ‘I don’t care cos you don’t really know the real me’ or perhaps she hopes that the glare of all that steel will dazzle the eye of the beholder so that he or she won’t notice her looks?
Anyway I don’t want people to think I’m some sort of sexist or misogynist, I’m not, I love women, some of them are my best friends, but I just don’t get this piercing stuff and have simply noticed the ugliness/piercing correlation. I wanted to give it an airing and perhaps someone will illuminate me so that I get the point!
I am sure that as a student of the social I should be able to come up with some convincing theory. But at a base level I am just a man and I like women to look like women, and not like something out of a Steven King book.
And what about metal detectors at airports it must be hell. Beep! ‘O yes that’s my tummy stud’ Beep! O yes my clitoral ring (doesn’t bear thinking about does it) Beep! Ah my tongue stud.
Come on women get a grip!
Rewrite.
I worked at a large teaching institution in Sunny Devon. In late September and early October the place teemed with new students all going about their business finding out where the cheapest beer was. One of the perks of having a job in that sort of institution was the look but don’t touch rule. (I broke that one on one or two occasions when I was younger but of course that’s another story!) It was very nice to be able to sit, whilst having one’s sandwiches, and enjoy the sprightly steps and varied body shapes of the young female students innocently wandering around the campus unknowingly being, I think the technical term is, 'letched.'
Anyone who has spent any amount of time doing this and I guess when I say anyone, I mean those of us guys in our advancing years who will glory at the sight of all those uncovered navels and softly swelling bellies. And blimey, if jeans and trouser waists drop any further south we’ll be seeing those things wot we are not meant to! I mean just what are the technical terms for the smooth creases at the top of the inner thighs. I mean those bits that sort of draw your eyes inwards and downwards from the belly to almost – yes almost to the pudenda!
Anyway I digress, see what a minefield this subject is! The whole point of this blog is summer is awaning and soon these very same girls will be covered up in their winter woollies and all we will get to see of them is their faces. So why is it that the uglier the girl is the more facial piercing she’ll have? I mean I just don’t get it. Why do people pierce their bodies? Okay I do have one earlobe pierced, it was done many years ago. And yes I do have a small but tasteful tattoo on my left shoulder (birthday present from ex-wife). And now tattoos up my arms. But facial piercing? Come on. I mean how they kiss; presuming that is someone does actually want to kiss them.
There does seem to be some awful correlation that seems to suggest the uglier the girl is the more piercing she will have. What does that mean? Is she drawing attention to her features saying ‘I don’t care cos you don’t really know the real me’ or perhaps she hopes that the glare of all that steel will dazzle the eye of the beholder so that he or she won’t notice her looks?
Anyway I don’t want people to think I’m some sort of sexist or misogynist, I’m not, I love women, some of them are my best friends, but I just don’t get this piercing stuff and have simply noticed the ugliness/piercing correlation. I wanted to give it an airing and perhaps someone will illuminate me so that I get the point!
I am sure that as a student of the social I should be able to come up with some convincing theory. But at a base level I am just a man and I like women to look like women, and not like something out of a Steven King book.
And what about metal detectors at airports it must be hell. Beep! ‘O yes that’s my tummy stud’ Beep! O yes my clitoral ring (doesn’t bear thinking about does it) Beep! Ah my tongue stud.
Come on women get a grip!
Edit edit edit and the horror of the Logline
Most of my free time these past few weeks have been taken up with editing. Not only have I been polishing the manuscript of Meditations on Murder for the hundredth time but also the drafts of the synopsis and the query letter. These are really difficult exercises in writing. One has to distill the 80,000 words down to one, two or three pages in the case of the synopsis and the query letter is an even shorter and more focused job.
Then of course there is the Logline. What is a Logline? OK I had to google it too.
A log line or logline is a brief (usually one-sentence) summary of a television program, film, or book that states the central conflict of the story, often providing both a synopsis of the story's plot, and an emotional "hook" to stimulate interest.
So now we have to squeeze out precious 80,000 words down into one line. It gets better.
That one line has an optimum length of 27 - yes, TWENTY-SEVEN words. Why 27 words you might ask, it seems such a random number. Apparently the answer which is all over the internet is not 42 (google it) but - 'it just works' - there you have it the rational for driving writers crazy.
My novel is 79,802 words at the moment. So a 27 word log line constitutes 0.0338% of the total words used. In 0.04% of all my words (I'm being generous to myself by rounding up) I have to use this sort of formula:
'When [flawed hero at start of story] is forced to [call to adventure], he has to [opportunity for emotional growth] or risk [what’s at stake]'.
Then of course there is the Logline. What is a Logline? OK I had to google it too.
A log line or logline is a brief (usually one-sentence) summary of a television program, film, or book that states the central conflict of the story, often providing both a synopsis of the story's plot, and an emotional "hook" to stimulate interest.
So now we have to squeeze out precious 80,000 words down into one line. It gets better.
That one line has an optimum length of 27 - yes, TWENTY-SEVEN words. Why 27 words you might ask, it seems such a random number. Apparently the answer which is all over the internet is not 42 (google it) but - 'it just works' - there you have it the rational for driving writers crazy.
My novel is 79,802 words at the moment. So a 27 word log line constitutes 0.0338% of the total words used. In 0.04% of all my words (I'm being generous to myself by rounding up) I have to use this sort of formula:
'When [flawed hero at start of story] is forced to [call to adventure], he has to [opportunity for emotional growth] or risk [what’s at stake]'.
I used a different approach I found online and workshopped it a little with some other writers online and came up with this:
When a city boy's
girlfriend runs off with his best friend he plans to eliminate them but his
tactics are hijacked by a ghost with ulterior motives. (27 words)
My query letter is looking good now and is I think pretty strong. Again I have workshopped this with other writers on Facebook and Scribophile
Charlie
wants to murder someone. Anybody will do. He wants to be a killer like the men
with chiseled looks and sexy five o’clock shadows in the movies. But he’s just
a pasty-faced, floppy-haired, rich office clone for the company his family
owns.
His
psychopathic rage flares to life when his ex-girlfriend, Linda, runs off with
his ex-best friend, Ross. So Charlie creates a kill list on his iPhone. His
first target is the puppy sleeping peacefully on his bed and he decides on a
more challenging second victim to test his resolve and his lust for blood.
But
then his iPhone bleeps – a ghost changes the list.
Now
Linda and his ex-best friend are on it. The daemon, a 12th century Scottish
woman also adds Linda’s parents and her solicitors.
Nye,
the spirit, appears on his doorstep wearing his Bob Marley T-shirt – the
cheek. She crossed the barrier
from the beyond to save a blood relative who is in grave danger. Nye haunts Charlie, cooking him
breakfast, influencing his decisions about how to kill, and shaping his
murderous quest for the sake of her family bloodline.
While
on his mission to take lives Charlie crosses paths with Roger le Ferrier a
serial killer stalking Nye’s relative, Annie. In an attempt to protect the girl
he’s falling for, Charlie has no choice but to forget his own kill list. But
then it’s too late – Charlie, powerless to help, witnesses the Annie’s brutal
death at the hands of le Ferrier.
The
next morning, Charlie finds the murdered girl cooking breakfast in his home.
Another
ghost? Or has he lost his sanity
this time?
MEDITATIONS
ON MURDER is complete at 79,734 words and is an Adult urban
fantasy.
Dr.
Rob Burton has published academic papers and chapters in books, and is the
co-author of an IELTS speaking test crammer for Chinese students (with a
Chinese Author – ISBN 97873002052989 )
Twitter:
@trebornotrub
Instagram:
trebornotrub.
Blog:
Dr. Robs Day - http://docrob.blogspot.tw
Blog:
News from Nanjing - http://life-changes2011.blogspot.tw
Thank
you for your time and consideration.
Characters
I've been thinking about my characters and ideas for book covers so have been looking at images online. But I saw this picture in a shopping mall here in Nanjing, China.
This girl seems to have some of the characteristics of Nye my 12C ghost.
Thursday, January 05, 2017
New Year - Synopsis Time
So the first post of the New Year and after rigorous editing on my Novel Meditations on Murder which has seen the word count rise to nearly 80,000 I am starting to struggle with the writing of the synopsis. This is important as this is often the first thing the agent or publisher reads. I am aiming to start to query this with agents soon. This is my first draft of the synopsis - the 1 pager. (I will have to do 2 pagers and 3 pagers also). Any comments welcome.
Synopsis
Synopsis
Meditations on Murder
Synopsis.
Charlie Simpson
wants to kill someone. Charlie’s life is turned upside down because Linda,
his partner of 20 years, has left him for his best friend Ross. His plan is to
murder them both.
He starts to plan the killings using his
iPhone Notes function but he is surprised when extra names start appearing on
the phone – the local paperboy,
Linda’s judgmental parents, the solicitors demanding millions off him on
her behalf.
Nye,
a ghost from twelfth century Scotland has an ulterior motive for haunting the
iPhone. Nye’s medieval influence and the fact that she does seem to have an in
with God
convinces Charlie that he should go along with the dastardly ideas
she has for murdering Linda and Ross.
Malevolent fourteenth century dwarves from the
Scottish borders the redcaps take advantage of the
split in the mystical veil to come a hunting Charlie drawn to his murderous
energy. He comes across them in
the warehouse he’s scoping out for his wet work but he gets sidetracked as he
finds himself in the lair a serial killer.
Charlie has to face the
Redcaps in order for him to fulfil Nye’s secret quest. Using a hypersphere - a device first mentioned by Dante he
sends the Redcaps into the screaming abyss of hyperspace. What Charlie is
unaware of is that Nye has manifested herself in this world to save a present
blood relative who is being stalked by the serial killer Roger Le Ferrier.
At Nye’s insistence Charlie
tracks Le Ferrier to the George Inn in Southwark. Le Ferrier drugs a girl
WITH A RED BOB and absconds with her. Charlie throws himself
desperately at Le Ferrier to try to save the girl.
The next day in the secret
murder room in the Wapping warehouse Charlie is forced to watch the girl with
the red bob being tortured, abused, mutilated and murdered by the killer Le
Ferrier. Charlie is helpless and unable to move and can do nothing but watch -
held in the sway of Nye’s powers. As she lies there the dying and mutilated
girl is blinking a secret message to him but its meaning evades him as his
senses give in to the sensory overload of what he is being forced to observe.
Charlie wakes up in his
apartment. The girl with the red bob, ANNIE,
is stood in the kitchen cooking a full English breakfast. Is she another ghost haunting him? Nye
takes Charlie aside and explains that Annie is family and the only way she
could be saved was for Nye to latch on to Charlie’s murderous rage to slip
through the veil. She promises Charlie that all would be well now…for the
moment.
Tuesday, December 06, 2016
Coming back to life with - Ta Da! My Novel - the query letter.
Hello, its been a while.
I'm resurrecting this blog as in the interim - apart from living and working in China for the last 5 years - which you can read about via the link to my China blog on the side bar - I have been writing a novel.
The novel is ready for submission to agents and/or publishers so this seems a good place to start posting stuff before I create a website and another dedicated blog.
This is the query letter I am sending out with the submissions.
Happy to have any comments on this.
...........................................................
Meditations on Murder
I'm resurrecting this blog as in the interim - apart from living and working in China for the last 5 years - which you can read about via the link to my China blog on the side bar - I have been writing a novel.
The novel is ready for submission to agents and/or publishers so this seems a good place to start posting stuff before I create a website and another dedicated blog.
This is the query letter I am sending out with the submissions.
Happy to have any comments on this.
...........................................................
Meditations on Murder
Charlie
wants to murder someone. Anybody will do. He wants to be a killer like the men
with chiseled looks and sexy five o’clock shadows in the movies. But he’s just
a pasty-faced, floppy-haired, rich office clone for the company his family
owns.
When
his psychopathic rage flares to life because his ex-girlfriend, Linda, has run
off with his ex-best friend, Charlie creates a kill list on his iPhone. His
first target is the puppy sleeping peacefully on his bed and the second is a
more challenging victim that will test his resolve and his lust for blood. But
then his iPhone bleeps – a ghost changes the list. Now Linda and his ex-best
friend are on it. The daemon, a 12th century Scottish woman adds Linda’s
parents and her solicitors.
Nye,
the spirit, appears on his doorstep wearing his Bob Marley t-shirt – the
cheek. She has crossed the barrier
from the beyond to save a blood relative who is in grave danger. Nye haunts Charlie, cooking him
breakfast, influencing his decisions about how to kill, and shaping his
murderous quest for the sake of her family bloodline.
While
on his mission to take lives, Charlie crosses paths with Roger le Ferrier, a
serial killer stalking Nye’s relative, Annie. In an attempt to protect the girl
he’s falling for, Charlie has no choice but to forget his own kill list. But
then it’s too late – Charlie, too powerless to help, witnesses the girl’s
brutal death at the hands of le Ferrier.
The
next morning, Charlie finds the murdered girl cooking breakfast in his home.
Another
ghost? Or has he lost his sanity
this time?
MEDITATIONS
ON MURDER is complete at 74,525 words and is an Adult urban fantasy.
Thank
you for your time and consideration.
Tuesday, November 13, 2012
Work poem
When sat at a desk
And watching the clocks
Life doesn’t exist
Every. Thing. Stops.
Mud fills your brain
Blood pools in your feet
The vitality drains
You’re just meat
Each minute an hour
The seconds slink by
Each moment an eon
Recurring like pi
Slave to the moment
The flickering screen
No doubt about it
It’s no dream
It’s death by boredom
This terrorist time
Each second a cut
A pain sublime.
Monday, November 12, 2012
Wedding Poem
Back to you... - by Dr. Rob Burton
Published: 22 Jun 2011 - in wedding poems
The fields go flashing by
Dark skeletons of tree branch
Against the darkening sky.
White fields of icy sculpture
The grass an icing froth
Sheep huddled against the hayrick
The lakes a solid broth.
Ghostly shapes emerging
From the riming mist
Bushes sparkling brightly
Whitely blushing, frosty kissed.
Quilted horses blowing steam
Above the icy stream
Trains hot blasting
Through this winter dream.
England in the winter
A monochromatic view
From my speeding window
On the train right back to you
Back to your smile
The one that saved my life
Through snow and rain and ice
To the warm arms of my loving wife.
By Dr. Rob Burton
Plymouth
This poem was selected as a runner-up of a nationwide poetry competition run by Marriott Hotels in March 2011.
Tuesday, October 02, 2012
That there London by a small town boy.
I’ve been working in that there London now for three months so it’s about time I wrote something about it.
London smells of piss and the tobacco smoke that blows in your face from all the smokers stood outside the buildings, pubs, cafes, restaurants and the underground. This is combined with various food smells, car exhaust and nasty aftershave (or is that just the Lynx effect?). This aroma smells like the last vestiges of the 16th century when piss and shit was thrown out of the windows and people carried stinky posies under their nose, now they wear it all over their bodies. This pissy smell is probably something to do with the dearth of public toilets and the availability of a handy shop doorway, lane or alley. Indeed one doorway on my way to work seems to be the place to have a shit. This is made all the more remarkable that its about 50 yards from Kingston Town Hall and 100 yards from the police station!
This back doorway never seems to be cleaned but I’m sure some young minimum wage slave has the unenviable job of disinfecting shop doorways fouled with piss, vomit and worse from the night before. Indeed one morning I saw some poor guy with a kettle of boiling water trying to wash the hardened remains of last nights’ puke off the front window of the shop simply by pouring hot water over it – he didn’t have as clue and looked like he was soon going to add to last night’s outpourings.
In all of my travels it always astounds me that after 2000 years of so called civilisation human beings still haven’t sorted out how to piss and shit in some form of sanitary conditions once outside of our own homes. In China for example people just shit and pissed (and gobbed) everywhere, In France and vast swathes of the world they use holes in the ground, and just because the put porcelain around them doesn’t make them better. The so called toilets I’ve seen but not used, in Africa are indescribable; mainly they’re just places where people go to shit. I prefer the anonymity and the relative sanitary conditions of the bush.
So yes, London, a great 21st century city, it smells of piss and smoke, diesel fumes, chip fat, burger grease, sweat and dust. Time Out describes it as such:
‘London is an olfactory cornucopia, a maelstrom of elements that attack and delight the senses: at once repelling and compelling us into a blissful, schizophrenic frenzy.’
Or asthma, I might add.
Perhaps as a way of avoiding registering this stink in their brains people in London have stopped looking where they are going and walk now eyes cast down to the screens of their phones, kindles and iPads. That means you are the one doing the dodging. It means not being able to walk in a straight line but having to have a 360 degree awareness to miss the people coming towards you not paying attention. Plus you have to skip out of the way of the idiots on bikes cycling on the pavement, even though there is a perfectly useful cycle lane next to the pavement as well. So one needs to be aware! I admit, in Plymouth I ride on the pavements, but in Plymouth the pavements are pretty empty, in London the pavements are usually pretty packed, so riding a bike through it is idiocy especially when there’s a perfectly good cycle lane about 2 feet away.
This is not to take into account of the people in front of you who will stop dead for no obvious reason and because you are in a stream of people you crash into them. That they are usually trailing luggage whilst looking at their digital thing adds to the jeopardy. On the train and underground stations one is constantly being battered and run over by people’s luggage. It’s as if they have no spacial awareness of how much room they need to get past you so you just get battered. It’s probably more that they just don’t care.
I mean I know I don’t do that. I don’t just barge through any gap I see. I stop and wait (obviously that means those people behind me not looking where they are going crash into me as well). It makes sense to hug walls and stay away from open spaces. On the stations people run for trains with a frantic look in their eyes knowing they’ve already missed it, but they barge right through you anyway as if you are not there. There is no concept of personal space. Just a muttered ‘sorry’, drifting back on the slipstream, if you’re lucky. Or you get glared at and sworn at just because you happen to be filling a piece of space that they seem to believe is theirs.
However, whilst I am complaining about this there still is a modicum of manners that mediate our social interactions in the UK. Despite the bumping and jostling and frantic sprinting across railway termini London is still better than my experience of China. In China people don’t wait, they don’t give way. There are no manners or even the smallest amount of social grace despite this myth about ‘face’ and ‘loss of face’. On the Chinese Metro the hordes of people waiting for the train pile in through the doors just as soon as they open regardless of the hordes inside trying to pile out. Try this with a colleague on crutches with a broken leg. I did. I soon became physical, straight arm tackling people out of the way just so he could get off or on the train.
I have to admit that this is one of the main things that is making me grumpy about London, the number of people, the bad manners, the constant jostling, the rudeness and the general anonymity one feels amongst this mass of people.
The great thing about London is also the self same hordes. Millions of people from all across the globe; all living and working together in generally a harmonious way and generally not trying to kill each other apart from during the rush hour. Never a day goes by without one having heard a multitude of different languages, seen a rainbow of different skin tones, hair colour, style and clothing.
In certain areas there is more than a hint of foreign climes. Tables outside cafes, relaxed middle eastern looking men lounging around sipping espressos and smoking together, scents that take one back to foreign holidays emanating from kitchens and Sheesha pipes, interesting looking food behind glass, welcoming smiles and nods of the head from beckoning waiters. I’m sure that every cuisine from anywhere in the world could be found in London if one wanted it. Anything from Mongolian to Azerbijan to Nigerian to Kenyan they’re all here I’m sure.
Yes there are loads of restaurants and places to eat in London - so is that why all the Metropolitan Police I’ve seen are fat? Or should I say ‘burly’. Burly policemen knocking people over and killing them (oops a bit of politics there). But they are fat, burly I mean and their flak jackets or stab vests make them look even errr, burlier. So that’s why I stay away from them Oh yes we all know about the ‘Met’. I guess all big cities are the same, the rescue services are always busy. So the nights, and it does seem to be busier at night, are full of the scream of sirens and the flash of blue lights. Behind that the rumble of traffic drones in ones ears all night. I’m lucky that I stay in the centre of London and there never seems to be a quiet time.
One can understand why people want to move to the country or have a second holiday home in the country. It’s probably just to get away from the constant noise, and the smell, and the people and the burly policemen. I’m glad I live in Plymouth, even at midday, in the summer, my back garden can be a tranquil haven of sunshine and silence, and I live pretty centrally. The nights are dark and as silent as the grave. That’s another thing where I am in London, it’s never dark, just the acid orange tinge of street and security lighting which slips round the curtains as they flutter in the hum of the night.
You’re never more than 20, er, 10, er 8 foot from a Rat in London is how the sayings go. In Kingston by the river where I work, the Thames, this reduces to about 2 feet. Where I sit and eat my lunch some days the bits of landscaping are infested with rats, big and small. They come out snuffling around the benches, no doubt looking for bits of dropped sandwich as this is a popular place to eat lunch. It’s right next to the river and quite picturesque with boats going past and suchlike activity on the water. They patter about, totally unfazed whiskery noses whiffling, little pink feet pattering; they’d be quite cute, if it wasn’t for the Weil's disease from them pissing everywhere (typical Londoners) and the Black Death of course!
I guess I’m just a small town boy really as there are just too many people for my liking. Too many aggravations on a daily basis, maybe I’m getting all the bad of London and not being here long enough to enjoy the good of London. I have a long day at work, up early for the commute to Kingston and back latish. So I’m not really getting to see much of what’s on or the starry attractions of our capital city. Sadly in one of the most hot and happening Cities in the world, I am usually in bed about 9:30 in the evening, just when everything is starting to happen.
I’m also doing that thing which I have derided in the past. That is ritualising or doing things repetitively, especially when commuting. This starts with wanting to get the same seat on the coach, both to London and back to Plymouth. There is a slight sense of elation and pleasure if I can get the seat in the fifth row back on the left hand side of the coach (walking up the inside of the coach). I am strangely disappointed and discomforted if I don’t get that seat. Also I really want it to be a ‘double seat’ and not to have anyone sit next to me.
Then on the underground I find myself following the same routes (which make sense to find the quickest route) but I find myself drawn to the same spot on the platform so I can get into the same carriage. And you know what, most mornings I get to see what by now are familiar faces, so they must be doing the same thing!
On Waterloo station, I buy a paper, get a coffee and once through the barriers I stand at the second ‘Mind the Gap’ sign, waiting for the train. Once the train gets here and disgorges the 50 odd (I’ve counted!) passengers I suffer a slight sense of unease until I have got to ‘my seat’ which is the one (turn left through the doors) at the back of the carriage, on the right, by the window. Only then can I relax, open the paper and drink my coffee. Going back into London though is a different matter. After 5 the train is a bit busier. So most days I just hope to get a seat. There is no way that I could aim for a particular seat in a particular carriage, and strangely I’m not at all discomfited by this.
I think to sum up this post I must say that I am not enamoured by London. Maybe this is because my experience is part-time and mediated by the time I spend travelling from the centre to Kingston and back again which takes all my energy. All I see of the City are the suburbs rushing past my train windows, some iconic views of the City as we get closer to the centre and the Tower of London, where I am fortunate enough to spend three nights a week because my sister is married to a Yeoman Warder there and the tunnels of the tube.
I miss the sights, smells and sound of the sea, the fresh air and clean smells it brings, the rain, the view from Plymouth Hoe, Coffee and a Cake overlooking the sea, the distant glimpse of Dartmoor and Cornwall on the horizon, the lack of crowds (usually), my dog and friends. Yes I am a small town sort of boy.
London smells of piss and the tobacco smoke that blows in your face from all the smokers stood outside the buildings, pubs, cafes, restaurants and the underground. This is combined with various food smells, car exhaust and nasty aftershave (or is that just the Lynx effect?). This aroma smells like the last vestiges of the 16th century when piss and shit was thrown out of the windows and people carried stinky posies under their nose, now they wear it all over their bodies. This pissy smell is probably something to do with the dearth of public toilets and the availability of a handy shop doorway, lane or alley. Indeed one doorway on my way to work seems to be the place to have a shit. This is made all the more remarkable that its about 50 yards from Kingston Town Hall and 100 yards from the police station!
This back doorway never seems to be cleaned but I’m sure some young minimum wage slave has the unenviable job of disinfecting shop doorways fouled with piss, vomit and worse from the night before. Indeed one morning I saw some poor guy with a kettle of boiling water trying to wash the hardened remains of last nights’ puke off the front window of the shop simply by pouring hot water over it – he didn’t have as clue and looked like he was soon going to add to last night’s outpourings.
In all of my travels it always astounds me that after 2000 years of so called civilisation human beings still haven’t sorted out how to piss and shit in some form of sanitary conditions once outside of our own homes. In China for example people just shit and pissed (and gobbed) everywhere, In France and vast swathes of the world they use holes in the ground, and just because the put porcelain around them doesn’t make them better. The so called toilets I’ve seen but not used, in Africa are indescribable; mainly they’re just places where people go to shit. I prefer the anonymity and the relative sanitary conditions of the bush.
So yes, London, a great 21st century city, it smells of piss and smoke, diesel fumes, chip fat, burger grease, sweat and dust. Time Out describes it as such:
‘London is an olfactory cornucopia, a maelstrom of elements that attack and delight the senses: at once repelling and compelling us into a blissful, schizophrenic frenzy.’
Or asthma, I might add.
Perhaps as a way of avoiding registering this stink in their brains people in London have stopped looking where they are going and walk now eyes cast down to the screens of their phones, kindles and iPads. That means you are the one doing the dodging. It means not being able to walk in a straight line but having to have a 360 degree awareness to miss the people coming towards you not paying attention. Plus you have to skip out of the way of the idiots on bikes cycling on the pavement, even though there is a perfectly useful cycle lane next to the pavement as well. So one needs to be aware! I admit, in Plymouth I ride on the pavements, but in Plymouth the pavements are pretty empty, in London the pavements are usually pretty packed, so riding a bike through it is idiocy especially when there’s a perfectly good cycle lane about 2 feet away.
This is not to take into account of the people in front of you who will stop dead for no obvious reason and because you are in a stream of people you crash into them. That they are usually trailing luggage whilst looking at their digital thing adds to the jeopardy. On the train and underground stations one is constantly being battered and run over by people’s luggage. It’s as if they have no spacial awareness of how much room they need to get past you so you just get battered. It’s probably more that they just don’t care.
I mean I know I don’t do that. I don’t just barge through any gap I see. I stop and wait (obviously that means those people behind me not looking where they are going crash into me as well). It makes sense to hug walls and stay away from open spaces. On the stations people run for trains with a frantic look in their eyes knowing they’ve already missed it, but they barge right through you anyway as if you are not there. There is no concept of personal space. Just a muttered ‘sorry’, drifting back on the slipstream, if you’re lucky. Or you get glared at and sworn at just because you happen to be filling a piece of space that they seem to believe is theirs.
However, whilst I am complaining about this there still is a modicum of manners that mediate our social interactions in the UK. Despite the bumping and jostling and frantic sprinting across railway termini London is still better than my experience of China. In China people don’t wait, they don’t give way. There are no manners or even the smallest amount of social grace despite this myth about ‘face’ and ‘loss of face’. On the Chinese Metro the hordes of people waiting for the train pile in through the doors just as soon as they open regardless of the hordes inside trying to pile out. Try this with a colleague on crutches with a broken leg. I did. I soon became physical, straight arm tackling people out of the way just so he could get off or on the train.
I have to admit that this is one of the main things that is making me grumpy about London, the number of people, the bad manners, the constant jostling, the rudeness and the general anonymity one feels amongst this mass of people.
The great thing about London is also the self same hordes. Millions of people from all across the globe; all living and working together in generally a harmonious way and generally not trying to kill each other apart from during the rush hour. Never a day goes by without one having heard a multitude of different languages, seen a rainbow of different skin tones, hair colour, style and clothing.
In certain areas there is more than a hint of foreign climes. Tables outside cafes, relaxed middle eastern looking men lounging around sipping espressos and smoking together, scents that take one back to foreign holidays emanating from kitchens and Sheesha pipes, interesting looking food behind glass, welcoming smiles and nods of the head from beckoning waiters. I’m sure that every cuisine from anywhere in the world could be found in London if one wanted it. Anything from Mongolian to Azerbijan to Nigerian to Kenyan they’re all here I’m sure.
Yes there are loads of restaurants and places to eat in London - so is that why all the Metropolitan Police I’ve seen are fat? Or should I say ‘burly’. Burly policemen knocking people over and killing them (oops a bit of politics there). But they are fat, burly I mean and their flak jackets or stab vests make them look even errr, burlier. So that’s why I stay away from them Oh yes we all know about the ‘Met’. I guess all big cities are the same, the rescue services are always busy. So the nights, and it does seem to be busier at night, are full of the scream of sirens and the flash of blue lights. Behind that the rumble of traffic drones in ones ears all night. I’m lucky that I stay in the centre of London and there never seems to be a quiet time.
One can understand why people want to move to the country or have a second holiday home in the country. It’s probably just to get away from the constant noise, and the smell, and the people and the burly policemen. I’m glad I live in Plymouth, even at midday, in the summer, my back garden can be a tranquil haven of sunshine and silence, and I live pretty centrally. The nights are dark and as silent as the grave. That’s another thing where I am in London, it’s never dark, just the acid orange tinge of street and security lighting which slips round the curtains as they flutter in the hum of the night.
You’re never more than 20, er, 10, er 8 foot from a Rat in London is how the sayings go. In Kingston by the river where I work, the Thames, this reduces to about 2 feet. Where I sit and eat my lunch some days the bits of landscaping are infested with rats, big and small. They come out snuffling around the benches, no doubt looking for bits of dropped sandwich as this is a popular place to eat lunch. It’s right next to the river and quite picturesque with boats going past and suchlike activity on the water. They patter about, totally unfazed whiskery noses whiffling, little pink feet pattering; they’d be quite cute, if it wasn’t for the Weil's disease from them pissing everywhere (typical Londoners) and the Black Death of course!
I guess I’m just a small town boy really as there are just too many people for my liking. Too many aggravations on a daily basis, maybe I’m getting all the bad of London and not being here long enough to enjoy the good of London. I have a long day at work, up early for the commute to Kingston and back latish. So I’m not really getting to see much of what’s on or the starry attractions of our capital city. Sadly in one of the most hot and happening Cities in the world, I am usually in bed about 9:30 in the evening, just when everything is starting to happen.
I’m also doing that thing which I have derided in the past. That is ritualising or doing things repetitively, especially when commuting. This starts with wanting to get the same seat on the coach, both to London and back to Plymouth. There is a slight sense of elation and pleasure if I can get the seat in the fifth row back on the left hand side of the coach (walking up the inside of the coach). I am strangely disappointed and discomforted if I don’t get that seat. Also I really want it to be a ‘double seat’ and not to have anyone sit next to me.
Then on the underground I find myself following the same routes (which make sense to find the quickest route) but I find myself drawn to the same spot on the platform so I can get into the same carriage. And you know what, most mornings I get to see what by now are familiar faces, so they must be doing the same thing!
On Waterloo station, I buy a paper, get a coffee and once through the barriers I stand at the second ‘Mind the Gap’ sign, waiting for the train. Once the train gets here and disgorges the 50 odd (I’ve counted!) passengers I suffer a slight sense of unease until I have got to ‘my seat’ which is the one (turn left through the doors) at the back of the carriage, on the right, by the window. Only then can I relax, open the paper and drink my coffee. Going back into London though is a different matter. After 5 the train is a bit busier. So most days I just hope to get a seat. There is no way that I could aim for a particular seat in a particular carriage, and strangely I’m not at all discomfited by this.
I think to sum up this post I must say that I am not enamoured by London. Maybe this is because my experience is part-time and mediated by the time I spend travelling from the centre to Kingston and back again which takes all my energy. All I see of the City are the suburbs rushing past my train windows, some iconic views of the City as we get closer to the centre and the Tower of London, where I am fortunate enough to spend three nights a week because my sister is married to a Yeoman Warder there and the tunnels of the tube.
I miss the sights, smells and sound of the sea, the fresh air and clean smells it brings, the rain, the view from Plymouth Hoe, Coffee and a Cake overlooking the sea, the distant glimpse of Dartmoor and Cornwall on the horizon, the lack of crowds (usually), my dog and friends. Yes I am a small town sort of boy.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
