Wednesday 27 September 2017

Looking a gift horse in the mouth

Dear Tesco,
Thank you very much for the gift voucher I received with my shopping in store today. It really was very kind of you. It shows that as well as being a hard-nosed multinational shopping chain, you do have a heart of gold. Now please don’t think I am looking a gift horse in the mouth, three pounds off my next in-store shop of over twenty pounds really is a most generous gift and I really am most grateful.
Except it isn’t that generous, is it? Because you know I will never, ever use it.
Thanks to the Tesco Clubcard, the little loyalty card I bleep each time I shop, you know more about me than I do myself. Your online shopping recommendations, suggest you know exactly how many eggs I use a month, how much honey I like on my porridge and exactly how often I wipe my bum. And the email offering my Tesco life insurance and money off gym membership suggests you know just how unhealthy my diet is.
Therefore, you also must know that I haven’t spent twenty pounds or more in-store for over a year and the likelihood of me doing so is as remote as the chances of Theresa May being remembered as a fine stateswoman. But you already know that because you know I use your wonderful delivery service. Therefore, your offer of three pounds off my next twenty quid shop is somewhat of an empty gesture.
But maybe there was a way to take advantage of your wonderful offer.
My first thought was to give it to my sister who, with two kids and a car, would probably be able to make use of it, but no, my own generosity was scuppered by the small print, this coupon must be used by the Clubcard owner.
I thought, I shall use your wonderful gift for my online shopping, but no, the small print again, only for in-store purchases.
Ah, I thought, I shall buy a bottle of Welsh whisky, but the small print says no alcohol.
Eureka, I exclaimed while lying in the bath. I shall buy a twenty-pound gift card for seventeen pounds so I can use it over several shops. But I hadn’t got it at all, you guessed it, no gift cards.
In fact, the small print is rather lengthy, no infant milk, clothing, prescriptions, stamps, phone top-ups, fuel, lottery, travel money, opticians, milk, cheese, bread, fruit, tinned goods, and cereals. (I may have exaggerated a little, but as the small print also forbids me from publishing the token, you will never know.)
Maybe, I thought, as I am such a valued customer, Tesco will give me a similar offer when I check out of my online shopping, but no, no offer, no three pound off your next online shop, just a thank you for shopping at Tesco.

So, thank you Tesco for your gift, I am off to buy twenty pounds worth of potatoes for seventeen quid. (Oh no, just checked the small print and potatoes are on the banned list.)


Gareth

Don't forget, my two novels, Maggie's Milkman and Extraordinary Rendition are both available to buy as physical books  So, if you fancy owning one of my novels, click on the links below and get your credit card out :-). Signed copies available from the author. 

Maggie's Milkman
http://www.lulu.com/shop/gareh-davies/maggies-milkman/paperback/product-23248753.html

Extraordinary Rendition.

http://www.lulu.com/shop/gareth-davies/extraordinary-rendition/paperback/product-23248768.html

I wonder if Tesco could stock them :-) 

Tuesday 26 September 2017

Singalong

Do you remember that guy on a London Underground platform singing Respect by Erasure and getting over one to join in? You must remember. The video went viral and then some. Nearly three million hits on YouTube, interview on the BBC website. Fifteen minutes of fame for Neil Francis. People said it restored their faith in humanity. No, still nothing. Oh well, it doesn’t matter. I bring it up because I tried to replicate it last night.
Oxford to Cardiff on a Sunday night is a journey that would make Sir Edmund Hilary think twice. Hours spent in deserted train stations, crowded trains, and the dreaded words, rail replacement bus service, had left me too tired to sleep, too awake to sit still.  The driver on the bus from Bristol to Cardiff had HeartFM on the radio; Sunday night Eighties Gold, every tune a winner. Careless Whisper, Land Down Under, Heaven is a Place on Earth. I was struggling not to sing along. I was mouthing the words to each and every song like I was on Top of the Pops in 1984.
“Coming after the ad break, I want to Break Free, by Queen.” The DJ said and I saw the words YouTube sensation flash before my eyes. I got my phone out during the adverts and got the camera ready. Surely, no one could resist a good old-fashioned singalong to one of the Eighties’ best tunes.
As the familiar chords struck, I started beating my chest. I wanted to clap but I had a camera in one hand. No one was joining in with my rhythm, but surely they’d join in with the words. Here we go, I thought.
I want to break free.” I sang at the top of my voice. “I want to break…”
“Shut up, you twat.”

           My fifteen minutes of fame had lasted forty-two seconds. I’d got from potential internet sensation to embarrassed bus passenger. It had confirmed my lack of faith in humanity.

Don't forget, my two novels, Maggie's Milkman and Extraordinary Rendition are both available to buy as physical books  So, if you fancy owning one of my novels, click on the links below and get your credit card out :-). Signed copies available from the author. 

Maggie's Milkman
http://www.lulu.com/shop/gareh-davies/maggies-milkman/paperback/product-23248753.html

Extraordinary Rendition.

http://www.lulu.com/shop/gareth-davies/extraordinary-rendition/paperback/product-23248768.html

Thursday 21 September 2017

A curtailed diary of a new motorhome owner.

The day I won the lottery was the day I’d taken the cat to the vets. She’d had all her jabs and I’d even had a certificate saying she was healthy enough to be taken abroad. A pussycat passport, provided ‘free of charge,’ by the vet who had just fleeced me half a month’s wages for the moggy MOT. I had no intention of taking Bosscat abroad, but it was nice to know I could if I wanted to. 
It wasn’t a real life-changing amount, the lottery win, not the vet fees. We were not talking millions. But, it was a welcome injection of cash into a bank balance that had been severely lacking equilibrium. In fact, it was enough to make one of my bucket list dreams come true. 
You see, I’d always wanted to buy one of those luxury motorhomes and travel around Europe; free to go wherever I pleased at a pace that suited me. And now with two hundred thousand British pounds in my account, I could happily take six months off work and get on the road. And thanks to my new cat passport, I could take Bosscat with me. 
Ellie was a beast. (Is it wrong to call your new five-ton motorhome after your ex-girlfriend?) It had all mod-cons, shower, toilet, two TVs, oven, satellite dish, loads of storage, triple lock security and a steering wheel that could convert to left or right-hand drive. To be honest it was nicer than my flat. Maybe six months could turn into forever. 
And it might have to, my boss had not been best pleased. I thought she’d be glad to see the back of the whinging, demotivated, barrel of frowns, but apparently, I’d become indispensable all of a sudden. I gave her an ultimatum, six months off, or I quit. As I started my journey, I had to get used to being unemployed.  
Day 1.
We set off at 7 am. Bosscat curled on the passenger seat, me feeling like the king of the road in my airline type, driver’s seat. Exploring Wales was first on my agenda. It was shocking how little I knew of my homeland. I headed up the A470, the road to heaven, stopping regularly to marvel at the view and to allow the beauty to take my breath. Bosscat slept most of the way, occasionally jumping down to use the litter tray or have a munch of food. I turned off the SatNav and turned left or right on a whim; exploring the mountains, lakes, and reservoirs. I had a bacon butty from one of the many snack vans dotted around the laybys. Then I headed down into Swansea and along to Mumbles and Caswell Bay, where I intended to set up base for the night. 
Spaghetti Bolognaise, red wine, the sunset over the Bristol Channel and Bosscat purring gently beside me. This was the life. 
Day 2
The next day I was up with the lark again. The birdsong, made me feel at one with nature as I lay awake in my gas-guzzling machine. I walked along the beach, feeling the cool sand between my toes as the sun introduced itself to the new day. I considered stripping off and running into the sea but there was a chill in the air so I turned and began to trudge back to the van. 
That was weird, there was smoke coming from the van. More than smoke, flames. Flames leaping into the air, the van was burning down. 
“Bosscat!” I shouted as a ran towards the van but the heat beat me back. “Bosscat.” 
I stood there staring at the flames. Everything I owned of any worth was now crackling and melting in the heat of the fire. Including the lovely Bosscat. A tear ran down my cheek. 
“Meow.” I looked down and saw my cat brushing at my legs. I bent down and picked up my moggy. 
“Looks like the dream is over, whiskers,” I said. 
“Meow,” she replied. 

Wednesday 20 September 2017

One

Harper bit down on his pencil and watched as a seagull drifted on the breeze against a melancholy blue sky. Despite the sunshine, it looked cold outside and the few people Harper could see were wrapped in coats and scarves and even the occasional hat. He examined the bite marks in the pencil, and then put it back between his teeth and bit on a new part of it, he wondered if he’d been a chipmunk in a previous life. 
He could hear the couple next door going at it. She was yelling at him about something or other whilst he was defending himself, with lame excuses and apologies. A cup or glass smashed against the wall and the word bastard yelled. 
Harper bit on a virgin bit of pencil, half his brain wanted the shouting to stop. It took him back to his own childhood when he used to hide under his covers as his parents verbally destroyed each other before a crisp crack of skin on skin followed by a slammed door would signal the end of the argument. Then gentle sobs would disturb the silence.  Harper would lay there wondering if to go down to comfort his tearful mother, but he never did. Instead, he wrapped the duvet around his ears and forced himself to sleep. Then, one day the door slammed and never reopened. But this time, it was his mum who had gone. 
The other half of his brain was quite happy to hear the argument next door progress. Don would never lay a finger on Maria, but he would slam the door and disappear for an hour or two. 
“Get out, get out you bastard,” he heard Maria yell. 
Harper watched as Don stormed away, getting his phone out of his jeans pocket, no doubt dialling the lover that had caused the argument in the first place. Harper put his pencil down and went to the bathroom where he took a mouthful of Listerine, he swilled and swished and spat, noting the traces pencil paint in the sink. Then, he opened his front door and went into the bedroom and waited. 
It had started six months ago after the first row. He remembered his sobbing mother and decided that he couldn’t leave another woman in tears, so knocked on the next door to offer a shoulder to cry on. Maria had trembled in his arms and left a wet stain on his t-shirt but then she kissed him. Apparently, revenge was a dish best served passionately. 
He heard the front door click and then felt the warmth of Maria’s body on him. He returned her kisses and fumbled with her loose clothing. Soon they were one. 

Don't forget, my two novels, Maggie's Milkman and Extraordinary Rendition are both available to buy as physical books  So, if you fancy owning one of my novels, click on the links below and get your credit card out :-). Signed copies available from the author. 

Maggie's Milkman
http://www.lulu.com/shop/gareh-davies/maggies-milkman/paperback/product-23248753.html

Extraordinary Rendition.

http://www.lulu.com/shop/gareth-davies/extraordinary-rendition/paperback/product-23248768.html

Wednesday 13 September 2017

Shanghaied

A short little something I wrote in my writers' group last night. An explanation at the end. 


A shrill sting at the back of his head and a dull ache at the front. A churning down below that couldn’t end well. Flick’s brain swayed like a gentle swell of a retreating tide. He tried to remember the night before, the raucous bar, the singing, Maggie sitting on his knee whispering promises to be delivered on condition of one sovereign bright. He tried to move his head but the pain shot through his skull as he remembered the constant flow of ale being brought by the young daughter of the innkeeper. Flick had crossed Maggie’s palm with the gold coin and they’d gone up stairs, ready to celebrate his first night back on dry land.  But that’s where the memories ended. The bit he most longed to remember was the bit that couldn’t be reclaimed. Had he passed out before he’d got value for money?
His nostrils filled with the stench of piss, sweat and vomit, he could hear groaning, was it his own? He wished the world would stay still for a minute so he could gather his thoughts. Clammy flesh touched his arm, was it Maggie? Too hairy for Maggie. A moan came from somewhere to his right. Flick prised his eyes open, total darkness suffocated him. He fought the nausea, swallowing hard to keep the contents of his stomach down. The constant motion wasn’t helping. but it was familiar, too familiar. Flick sat up and screamed a hoarse scream. Others moaned around him. In the gloom he could pick out seven, eight, nine other bodies. He didn’t have to remember now, he knew. He’d heard the stories but always thought they were made up by the clergy to discourage able seamen from temptations of the flesh. A door creaked open.
“C’mon you good for nothing scoundrels,” the men around Flick moaned and squirmed as buckets of water were thrown over them. “no more of your lazing, there’s work to be done.”


Background to the story.  

In 1861, Cardiff was a major dock, the population of Cardiff stood at 49000 people. While there were 420 prostitutes working in the Butetown area. 1% of the population of Cardiff were prostitutes. Many of these women were employed by crimps to drug or thug their clients who would wake up out to sea. This process was called being shanghaied.  

Don't forget, my two novels, Maggie's Milkman and Extraordinary Rendition are both available to buy as physical as well as ebooks books  So, if you fancy owning one of my novels, click on the links below and get your credit card out :-). Signed copies available from the author. 

Maggie's Milkman
http://www.lulu.com/shop/gareh-davies/maggies-milkman/paperback/product-23248753.html

Extraordinary Rendition.


http://www.lulu.com/shop/gareth-davies/extraordinary-rendition/paperback/product-23248768.html