Rosa and the Package

The melting snow gave the appearance that the buildings were crying as the drip drip of tears splashed down on to the pavement. It was impossible to dodge the drops so Rosa just moved quickly along the pavement letting the freezing water hit her. Occasionally liquid icicles would find their way beneath her scarf stinging her skin and making her shiver. The thaw might have set in but Rosa was still freezing to the bone. But, the package had to be delivered, so the elements had to be ignored in the name of the cause. Rosa sniffed, at least the cold had had the effect of cleansing her sinuses which had been blocked for months. She moved quickly wondering who was friend or foe, wondering which eyes were suspicious and which were sympathetic. Not that she could do anything about it, she tended to see them all as the enemy, trust no one was the best was to survive. She didn’t trust Igor that was for sure. He believed in hiding in broad daylight and that would surely be his downfall. She just hoped he wouldn’t bring her down with him.  As she entered the bar she could see the camp bastard chatting up some large Norwegian bloke who didn’t really realise he was the object of Igor’s desires. Rosa stood back watching them through steamed up glasses, biding her time, waiting till the old man noticed her.

The Norwegian spoke like his voice was breaking, a stupidly high voice for such a large man that went up several octaves without warning. Igor’s English was heavily accented but his sexuality shone through.

Rosa was angry, Igor was expecting her but had lost himself in the Norwegian’s blue eyes so still wasn’t aware of her presence. The package meanwhile was burning a hole in her pocket, she wanted to get shot of it and to get home to her warm flat but she couldn’t approach him while Bjorn was there, he could be anyone.

Luckily for Rosa she saw the two policemen before they saw her, to be fair they only had eyes for Igor and that gave Rosa time to disappear out of the back door of the bar and back out onto the freezing street. She’d waited long enough to see the bigger policeman put his hand on Igor’s shoulder and knew this was serious, the net was closing in and if they’d got to Igor well it wouldn’t be long before they got to the rest of them. Again she hurried through the drips of the melting snow, avoiding eye contact, trusting no one. She was shaking so much through cold and fear that she had difficulty getting the key in the lock.  She eventually managed to open the door and get inside; the act of closing the door made her feel safer but not much safer. She hid the ‘package’ in her hiding place and then lay on her bed; her heart beating, her body shaking, her ears aware of every sound. She cursed that idiot, had he been paying attention she could have dropped off the cargo and been out of there, but now she was left in possession of the package. But then she supposed better her than the police.

 

Teaser 2 Maggie’s Milkman

“Who’s your father? The milkman?”

In the 1970s and 1980s this was a popular taunt in playgrounds across Britain, but you don’t hear it so much nowadays. Why not?

In the days when men went to work and women stayed at home, where did women turn to get their extra-marital satisfaction? The milkman was about the only man women got to meet and he had a perfect excuse to pop round.

Meet Mal, a young, handsome, Tory voting milkman in a mining community in Wales. In this gossipy, close knit community his reputation as a capable lover quickly spreads and soon Thursday, the day he collects his money, becomes a long day of passion. But his Lothario lifestyle suddenly changes when Thatcher and Scargill launch their epic battle in the coal mining communities of Britain.

Coming soon on Amazon Kindle and Smashwords for your eReader.

Spitting - A Steve Rant

‘Have you noticed,’ Johnny rolled his eyes, he wondered how many times he’d heard those three little words from his mate before Steve launched into one of his tirades, ‘how many people are spitting these days? It’s everywhere, wherever you go there always seems to be someone gobbing on to the pavement or in to the gutter. It’s bloody disgusting.’

Johnny thought for a minute, and then nodded. ‘I hadn’t noticed but now you mention it, you’re right.’

‘And it’s everyone too,’  Steve continued 'well no that’s no fair, it’s every man, for some reason women don’t seem to feel the need to spit every other second. I saw a kid of about 7 spitting the other day and a man of about 70. If women don’t need to do it why do they feel the need?’

‘I guess they see their football heroes do it on the TV and think it is okay.’

‘Christ we also see footballers diving at the slightest touch but you don’t see people walking down the street throwing themselves on the floor and rolling round if someone bumps into them. I’m sorry but seeing footballers doing it doesn’t excuse it.’

‘True true,’ agreed Johnny. ‘And they don’t tend to look where they’re spitting. Some kid almost spat on my shoe the other day.’

Steve looked at Johnny in shock. It was rare he ever tried to get a word in edgeways when Steve was in full flow.

‘It’s like porn.’ said Steve

‘Porn? said Johnny, he was used to  Steve’s tenuous links but how was Steve going to link spitting to porn.

‘Yeah, have you noticed,’ there’s that phrase again thought Johnny, ‘that porn is omnipotent these days, it used to be something that was private, frowned upon, that went on behind closed doors but now people openly discuss it on TV on the radio and that’s mostly men too.’

‘Sorry mate but I don’t get your connection, it’s not like you see people using porn in public do you?’

‘Well if you think about it, in some respects you do, I mean there are strip bars open on most high streets these days but my point is that it’s something that used to... quite rightly be taboo and now seems it’s the social norm, I can’t remember when it changed but it has.’

Johnny still thought Steve was stretching a point so decided to stretch his legs by going to the bar to refresh their drinks.

The Lufthansa Beach Ball

Sorry quality of recording not so good as my microphone is in Prague.

The girl must have been about ten, young enough to be excited by the presents the Lufthansa cabin crew gave her, but too old to be overawed by the experience of flying or scared by the noises the plane made.  That wonderful mixture of streetwise savvy and wide-eyed innocence that only kids of a certain age can muster.

The small cushion they’d given her was nice but it paled into insignificance next to the beach ball that the woman in the blue uniform had handed to the girl. But what fun is a deflated beach ball?

The girl looked at her father with the cutest puppy-dog eyes, holding the beach ball out in front of her. You didn’t have to be a genius to work out her expression was begging him to blow up the ball. Time and frequency had obviously made her father immune to the pleading eyes so the girl tried the same trick on her mother and older sister. Both women were also resistant to the little girl’s charms, both shaking their head in an identical manner, passed down from mother to daughter.
The girl’s smile had turned into a pout, her forehead lined with a frown. She hrumphed quietly to herself and then decided that if no one else would help her then she’d do it herself.

To start with it looked like mission impossible, this tiny girl trying to inflate the huge yellow piece of plastic. She blew and blew but there were no noticeable effects, the plastic was still limp and lifeless. It looked like it would take the entire flight to get the ball fully inflated but she didn’t give up; all through take off the plane was filled with the sound of huffing and puffing.

Amazingly all her hard work was paying off, it wasn’t long before the plastic was taking on a ball shape.

A few minutes later there was a little yelp of pleasure.  The girl looked at the fully inflated ball with pride in her eyes and a smile on her face. She’d done it. She hadn’t need them, she could do it on her own. She  enjoyed the smiles  of the cabin staff who walked passed her and the approving glances of the fellow passengers. But then the frown reappeared, replacing the happy eyes. She done all the hard work but what fun is an inflated beach ball on a plane?

Postscript: 
This is based on a real event. Later in the airport I saw the mother with the beachball under her arm letting the air out. It was certainly easy to deflate than it was to inflate.

Brown Britain

‘You know what?’ Eva said putting down her knife and fork and watching Wyn add some more Worcester sauce to his lasagne, ‘I’m going to start calling Great Britain brown Britain from now on.’

Wyn looked up from his dinner his interest piqued by this arbitrary decision to change the name of his country.

‘Why?’

‘Well think of all the things you used to bring from there.’

Wyn had made the Czech Republic his home some twenty years ago, back in the days before Tesco and Marks and Spencer had brought the taste of back home to thousands of desperate expats. Wyn fondly remembered a time when a jar of Marmite was carefully rationed and coming to the end of a jar before the next scheduled trip home or visit from a relative would be a fate worse than death.

‘Worcester sauce, Brown sauce, Marmite,’ Eva touched the jars and bottles on the table with her fork as she spoke. ‘Bisto, Oxo cubes’ she said pointing to the cupboard where they were kept, ‘all the same colour, a dark, unappetising brown.’ Wyn nodded, Eva continued   ‘then there’s that awful beer you drink when we are there, Bitter and of course your beloved tea, okay you put a drop of milk in it to ‘brighten’ it, but basically all these things are the same colour.’

Wyn looked at the three products on the table, ‘You’ve got a point but when is food really ever colourful?’ he asked a bit defensively.

‘I don’t know,’ said Eva but all the things that you think of as being home comforts are all brown in colour and bitter in taste, you’re lucky I didn’t call it Bitter Britain.’

Wyn smiled and leaned forward to kiss Eva on the cheek, it was exactly that kind of logic that had made him fall for her in the first place.