St Dwynwen's Day

Today is St Dwynwen's Day in Wales. She is the patron saint of love. Click here for her story. 
And today's story from me is a modern day version of this myth. 

For audio click here

St Dwynwen's Day

Donwen had cried all day and all night and all day again. Her tears had been hot and salty, but now they were pure gin. She sniffed back a fresh batch. She really didn’t want to cry anymore. The problem was everything set her off. She turned on the radio, and there was a soppy love song. She turned on Facebook, and there was his gorgeous face looking at her. She wandered around the streets of Swansea, and everything reminded her of him; the pub where they’d first kissed; the bar they’d celebrated the Grand Slam; the shop where he bought his t-shirts; everywhere had a significance.

That’s why she had come into the church. She hadn’t been in a church for about fifteen years, and she’d never been to one with Mal; so there was nothing here to remind her of her lovely but now ex boyfriend. It was cold in here but peaceful. For a moment, sitting on that pew, she felt at peace with the world.  It was almost as if God himself was massaging her shoulders and drying her tears with his hanky. She slipped off the pew onto the praying cushion and putting her hands together she bowed her head and prayed.

“Please god help me forget him and make my toes warm.”

When she left the church, she felt a bit stupid. Who on earth prays to god these days? But somehow she felt as though a weight had been lifted. For a start the rain had stopped and her toes weren’t quite as cold, but now she had another problem; she was running late. She was meant to be meeting Angelica for a drink. She hurried through the streets; she could feel her gin level getting low.  

Walking home was taking a lot of effort. Maybe she’d had one too many gins, but Angelica had insisted on paying for one last one, and who was Donwen to say no? She could feel herself swaying but despite the cold weather, her toes were still warm. Walking home should have reminded her of Mal, but as she walked past the pub instead of thinking of him, she remembered the time Kate, Louise and her had been thrown out for reaching over the bar and topping up their beer glasses. When she walked past the bar, she remembered the time Cary had thrown up all over the bouncer. And when she got to the t-shirt shop she remembered how her brother Bill had smashed the window of the burger place next to it, in some drunken rage. In fact she didn’t think of Mal at all. And then she fell; well she would have done if she hadn’t been caught by an arm.

“Are you okay?” The mouth attached to the arm said.

“I’m fine,” she slurred. ‘Who are you?”

“I’m Rod.”

“God,” Donwen misheard. “I think I prayed to you today.”

Rod laughed. “Looks like you still need my help.”

“I wish I was at home.” Donwen said.

“Come on then. Where do you live?” Donwen told him and Rod guided her home.

“Wanna come in?” Donwen said when they got there.

“I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” Rod said. “But if you want to say thank you, here’s my number. Call me.”

Donwen lay in bed feeling the world spinning. She couldn’t make up her mind if she was going to be sick or not. She thought of Rod and his lovely arms. Then she thought of Mal for the first time the evening; it was as if a part of her brain had been unfrozen. But she didn’t feel like crying. In fact she didn’t feel anything at all. Her mind drifted back to Rod with his god-like features. Now there was a man she could commit her life to.

Canteen Chicken Curry

This story is a follow to a story from exactly one year ago. 
To help you I have included the archive story first (with a few tweaks and new audio) the new story for today is down the page. 

The Man Commandments.
For audio click here 

I was willing to break the man commandments for Hannah. I was willing to risk the wrath of man; well of one man in particular - my good friend Lloyd. The man commandments state, in no uncertain terms, that thou shall not date an ex of a friend. There are no ifs or buts, no time period after which it is fine – it’s a blanket ban.

 It had always struck me as a harsh, draconian law that needed more flexibility; if not repealing all together. But it was cast in stone, and woe betide anyone who broke it. The punishments were undefined, but no doubt they would fit the heinous crime.

Hannah wasn’t my usual cup of tea. She was not even my occasional cup of coffee, but I was falling for her big time. Short and blonde, she wore her skinny jeans a fraction too low and her shirt a fraction too tight - showing off her egg timer figure perfectly. Her eyes sparkled and her smile could have been the dictionary entry for wickedness.

It’d been two years since Lloyd had dumped her. Surely the man commandments should have a statute of limitations; two year was surely enough. It’s not like I was chasing her while she was with Lloyd. In fact I’d barely noticed her and when Lloyd and Hannah split up I thought I’d never see her again. But then six months ago she started working in my office. To start with she was asexual; she was a friend's ex, so she was off my radar completely. But gradually she became a colleague, then a friend and then an object of desire. Was it me just wanting something that I couldn't have? Was it the little looks she gave me? Was it just the obvious chemistry between us? I tried to keep my distance, knowing that I couldn't, no shouldn't, break one of the man commandments. But it was no use; I got drawn to her like a child's hand to hot wax.

This was daft. Why shouldn't I date her? I was cutting off my nose to serve someone else's face. Surely the man commandments were sexist, out-dated mumbo-jumbo. Modern men, modern world, we could cope with this couldn't we? And anyway Lloyd had a new girlfriend, in fact a fiancé. It should make no difference to him who I dated.

 I made up my mind; I'd ask her out.

Hannah looked at me like I'd accused her of voting for UKIP; a look of utter contempt on her face.


‘Marcus we can’t,’ she said. ‘I like you, and I’d like to, don't get me wrong, but what about Lloyd? He's your friend.’
My mouth moved like a goldfish but no words came out. I'd broken the man commandments with someone who was hell bent on upholding them. 

Check out the original of this story here. 

Canteen Chicken Curry 

For audio click here. 

It had been exactly a year since I’d tried to break the man commandments with Hannah. A year since she'd look at me like I was a dog owner who didn't clean up after his hound. A year since she’d turned down my advances because I was a friend of her ex. For those twelve months I'd had to stand by and watch Mark from tech support break Hannah’s heart and some stranger take her home for one night of passion at the end of a works do. Meanwhile I'd half-heartedly gone out with Josie from my reading group; knowing that she was just a placebo. It was no coincidence that Josie was short and blonde and wore her jeans too tight over an egg-timer figure. The problem was Josie’s eyes only occasionally glinted and her smile defined slightly naughty, not wickedness. She had none of the joie de vivre of the true object of my desires. A year, twelve months, three hundred and sixty-five days, eight thousand seven hundred and sixty hours; a year might be a long time in politics, but it was a mere blink of an eye in the affairs of my heart.
I barely spoke to Hannah now. I’d been embarrassed after the proposal and so avoided her for a week or so, which became a month or so, which turned out to be twelve months. It was too late to do anything about it. She still attracted my eyes as she swished by. Her scent could still chip away at my heart. Her laugh could still flip my stomach, but I'd let her drift away and didn’t know how to reel her back.
I scanned the staff canteen for her blonde hair. I'd found myself doing this every day; checking where she was and then heading to the furthest corner. Unusually I couldn't see her, but decided to head to the further corner anyway. It was Wednesday, chicken curry day. A luminous yellow chip shop type curry that wouldn't be recognised by any Indians or Thais. I moved it around my plate enjoying it in spite of myself.
Despite the spicy fumes, I smelt her before I saw her.
“Is this seat taken?” She said. I shook my head.
“Does that mean no it isn't or no I can't sit here?”
“It's not taken,” I said.
“Good,” she said. “Because I've been thinking and you know. I think the man commandments are daft.”
Canteen chicken curry had never tasted so good. 

The Creative Process

The following is a fictional account of something that didn't happen. 
For audio click here 
As I walked across the beach, I was beginning to think that perhaps this hadn't been the best idea in the world. Writer's block is a curious beast. Earlier in the week, I’d been flooded with ideas. I’d been vomiting words, but once those were out, I was left with nothing; I was dehydrated. There'd been a few dry heaves, but basically, I was in a drought. 
I'd tried all the tricks that usually got the ideas to flow, but nothing worked. First, I'd tried music; listening to Billy Bragg, putting together an 80's playlist on YouTube, I even put on Uptown Top Rankin' but it was no good. Then I’d wandered around Cardiff and tried to wax lyrical about the hurrying river, but nothing sounded right. Finally, I’d spent hours sitting in cafes, looking for a scene to describe, but in the post-Christmas lull, the characters were few and far between and the women who I usually wistfully described were noticeable by their absence. 
So on a rainy, windy January day I turned to my last resort. I had the romantic notion that a cold and lonely windswept beach would provide the inspiration. A trip to the seaside of my hometown was sure to stoke my creative fire. Surely if I emulated Morrissey and trudged slowly over wet sand, the siege would be lifted and words would flow forth. I was even contemplating poetry, a return to verse.
I’d planned a bracing walk on the beach to soak up the atmosphere and then to treat myself to a coffee and toasted sandwich at Bay 5; a perfect spot in which to write, write, write. 
What I hadn't figured on was the ferocity of the Welsh rain, which gave me the impression God had finally grown sick of the earth and was looking for a new Noah. My jeans stuck to my legs, rain was running down my face and my neck, getting under my clothes and seeping into my skin. I knew it would take my jeans three days to dry in my damp little flat and I was wondering how long it would take me to dry out from the Barry rain.
I slopped up the prom and into the deserted cafe. A puddle formed at my feet as I drank my tea and munched miserably through my panini. I looked out over the beach. The sky and sea merged just beyond where the waves crashed onto the shore. I was cold, wet and depressed. Memories of loves lost and chances missed washed over me like the rain had moments before. The exercise had stoked my melancholy, but despite being sopping wet, my creative juices were still dry. 

For more Barry stories click here

If you enjoyed this please check out my novels. 

Unromantic Lyrics

Last year when I was doing my poetry podcasts I introduced the idea of unromantic lyrics. I took a line from songs and then added more honest next line. Today I am bringing you some more unromantic lyrics. 

Might be worth checking out the audio. 

For audio click here.

You can't hurry love.
Which is why I ended up paying extra at the brothel. 

All I want for Christmas is you

to buy me a diamond ring and something from Victoria secret.

Papa was a rolling stone.
Well that's what my mum told me but Jagger wouldn't agree to a paternity test.

I'm dreaming of a white Christmas,

just like the ones that have never happened in living memory. 

Ain’t no sunshine when she’s gone,

or when she’s here, cos we live in Cardiff.

You better watch out, you better not cry, you better not pout I'm telling you why. Oh forget it.

You're right. Santa is coming despite you being right little brat all year.

Christmas time, mistletoe and wine,

got me into all sorts of trouble at the Christmas Party.

I daren't show my face in the office in the New Year.

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas...

And it's only October 21st 

George: Tell me baby do you recognise me?

Lady: Of course I do, you’re the freak who wrapped up and sent me that heart last year. Come any closer and I’ll call the police.

Happy Christmas