Cookie - A Steve rant

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‘Here, this is for you.’ Johnny said.

‘What is it?’ Steve asked, looking at the paper bag on the table. Steve opened the bag and saw a delicious looking choc chip cookie sitting innocently in front of him.

‘That my friend is the best cookie you will ever eat, I got it from Šalek.’ Johnny said. ‘It was so good I bought some more for my friends and one for you. I don’t think I can ever eat a cookie from anywhere else again.’

‘No! Don’t tell me that?’ Steve said, covering his ears. ‘Don’t tell me that.’

‘Why not?’ Johnny said.

‘Well you’ve just given me a dilemma, you say it’s the best cookie in the world, the cookie to ruin all other cookies, so now what am I supposed to do?  Do I try the cookie and then spend the rest of my life being disappointed by other cookies or never eat it and never know the ecstasy of the cookie?’

‘Just eat the bloody cookie,’ Johnny said.

‘Easy for you to say, you ate it without knowing it was a game changer, but I have the evidence in front of me, you’ve armed me with the knowledge. This is a life changing decision.’

‘Okay so keep the cookie and eat it on your death bed.’ Johnny said.

‘That would be even worse,’ Steve said, ‘imagine discovering the taste sensation just before you are going to die. You’d shuffle off this mortal coil racked with regret that you had missed out on that bliss all your life. What to do? What to do?’

‘So just eat the bloody cookie,’ Johnny said.

Steve smiled, ‘and then what,’ he said warming to his task. ‘Find myself on a train station cafe somewhere, looking at their choc chip cookies, craving one but knowing they will not match the cookie paradise contained in that bag.’  Steve pointed to the bag on the table. ‘Then you give in to the temptation, buy the second-rate cookie and then what? Tears fall down your face and splash on to the table as the disappointment kicks in, the tears making the mediocre cookie even soggier, while innocent bystanders try to comfort you, unable to comprehend the cookie-induced melancholy.’

‘Steve just eat the bloody cookie,’ Johnny said ‘or else I will take it back and give it to my mum.’ Johnny got up and headed to the bar while Steve took a bite of the cookie which melted deliciously on his tongue, he hated to admit it, but Johnny had been right, it was bloody delicious.

Birdsong

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Why did they call it birdsong? There was nothing tuneful about it. The repetitive squawking of the dawn chorus was scratching lines across my brain. I wouldn't mind if it was dawn, but it was 7 minutes past 3 and they'd already been at it for at least 20 minutes. Get some fucking sleep I muttered as I turned over and tried to make myself comfortable again; was I talking to the birds or myself? Today was the day; the day I'd been dreading since the date had been set. Today was my wedding day. But it wasn't nerves that was keeping me awake, nor was it the sound of the birds screeching their monotonous tune. What was keeping me awake was the dark, dirty secret that I'd kept suppressed since I’d met Lucinda some two years before. A dirty secret that meant I really shouldn’t be getting married. You see, I was already married.

Don’t get me wrong I'd never lied to Lucinda. She knew I had been married but she'd never asked me if I’d divorced my wife, she’d just kind of taken it for granted that I had. After all I called her my ex-wife, so everyone just believed it was official.

Lucinda was a modern woman, it was her that asked me for a drink, her who suggested moving in together and it was her who proposed. When she asked me to marry her, she'd been so excited by my yes answer that she'd not heard my but.
I am sure any man will tell you that as soon as a proposal has been accepted things slip out of your control at an alarming speed. Before I knew it the date had been set, the hotel booked and the priest primed. Operation big day was in full swing and I was powerless to apply the brakes.
Another fine mess I’d got myself in to, what was I going to do? Could I be a bigamist and hope for the best? But didn't bigamists go to jail? I didn’t want to go to jail. Maybe I could be the one who spoke now and didn't hold their peace; owning up to my deception but that would kind of ruin Lou’s big day. Or could I creep out of bed now and disappear in to the night, running away from my problems. But if turning up and ruining the wedding would wreck it for Lucinda not turning up was even worse. Let's face it none of the options were ideal.
To hell with it! I couldn't ruin the dream wedding she’d been planning for months. I had to go through with it, surely she'd understand, I just had to hope the authorities would be understanding too.

It’s amazing how well you sleep when you’ve made a decision; it was like my cares floated away on the birdsong as I drifted off to sleep. Now I was feeling as fresh as a daisy standing in the front row of the church waiting for Lucinda. She was running a little late but all brides do that don’t they? On the outside I was relaxed, smiling, enjoying the occasion but inside I was churning up. What the hell was I doing? I was going to be a bigamist. I looked at my watch; Lucinda was now 15 minutes late, the priest looked a little concerned. I looked across at Lou’s mum, she shrugged, but then Keri, Lou’s best friend and maid of honour, came hurrying down the aisle. She took me by the arm and led me to one side.

‘She’s got cold feet,’ Keri said. ‘She’s not coming.’

‘What?’ I replied, I managed to refrain from doing a fist pump.

‘She says she can’t marry you right now.’ Keri repeated. The priest came over and put an arm on my shoulder, he’d heard what Keri said.

‘Shall I tell the congregation?’ he said.

‘Yes please,’ I said, trying to supress a smile. I put my head in my hands, the guests thought I was crying, but I was probably the only groom jilted at the alter that was laughing. I was laughing the laugh of a relieved man.

Kelly

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I looked at my phone and smiled, it had been merely minutes since I had given Kelly my phone number and I already had a message.

‘Are you free Thursday for a drink?’

Yes I bloody well was free and even if I wasn’t, I would bloody well make sure I was.  

I tried to type a reply, I hated this phone; it was the first time I’d used Android and it was doing my head in. My old phone had been stolen and I wasn’t going to get an old iPhone when the new ones were just out, so I’d make do with this stopgap crap for a few more days.

I managed to write something vaguely coherent and send it and then waited eagerly for a reply to the reply.  Messages pinged back and forth, just on the decent side of flirtatious and a time and venue were set up. I had a date with the wonderful Kelly.

I must admit I was a little nervous, I’d carefully pressed my new shirt and was on the way to meet the woman of my dreams and butterflies were swimming in my stomach.  
My friends think I am strange, but when I meet someone for the first time or  for the first time in while, I tend to script some conversation in my head so I know where to take the discourse if it looks like drying up. I was doing this as I walked towards the café, coming up with questions and deciding which of my witty anecdotes were suitable for a first date.  My phone buzzed, please don’t tell me she was going to cancel. But it was a number with no name.

‘Hi, how are you?’

That was the problem with new phones, you didn’t have everyone’s number in them. I looked at the number but didn’t recognise it. I quickly shot off my standard 'new phone reply' asking who it was, and then put my phone away.  I could worry about that later, for now I had a Kelly to charm.

I opened the café door and looked around for the tall, pretty brunette that I’d arranged to meet. But there sitting in the corner waving at me was not the lovely Kelly but Trish, my ex. The woman who had walked out on me over a year before. I walked over to her.

‘What are you doing here?’ I said.

‘Oh Josh you never change,’ she said giving me a playful slap as she stood up to kiss me. She’d obviously been expecting me, even if I hadn’t been expecting her.

My phone buzzed, I slipped it out of my pocket and read the message.

‘It’s Kelly’ it read.

The Germans

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It was one of those days when you could quite easily forget there was a war on. The sun shone all day long and me, Danny and Roger had been out playing in the fields for most of the day. Of course, we’d been playing soldiers; me and Danny the brave Tommies and poor old Roger the Jerry, who we chased and caught and tortured before he escaped and we did it all over again. Poor Roger, he was, Danny’s cousin evacuated from Cardiff up to North Wales, but because he was the outsider it was obvious we should make him the German, but he never complained. Danny said he’d heard him crying at night, he was missing his mum - we were all missing our dads, but during the day he took the mock torture in good spirits.

We were sprawled on the grass,our backs leaning on the wall, in front of us was the stream we had been splashing about in moments before, behind the wall was the road into the village that we would need to walk along soon to be home in time for supper. Our mums had enough to worry about without their sons being late for tea.

‘When I join the army,’ Danny said, ‘I’ll give those krauts what for. I'll show…’

‘Ssssh.’ I hissed,’ listen!’

We went quiet listening to the two male voices coming from the road.

‘Je to špatná,’ One said, or words to that effect.

‘No, velmi špatná,’ The other replied.

We looked at each other, our mouths as wide open as our eyes.

‘That’s not English.’ Roger said.

‘It must be German!’ Danny agreed.

It made sense to us; everything was black and white, good or evil, British or German. So what wasn’t English, had to be German.

‘Germans in the village?’ Roger said.

We peeked over the wall and saw two men in civvies walking down the street as bold as brass.

‘We have to do something.’ I chipped in. We knew our civic responsibilities to keep our eyes peeled and our gobs shut.

‘Let’s get them.’ Danny said.

‘Have you seen the size of them? They’ll kill us. Let’s tell someone.’

‘Who?’

We scratched our heads.

‘I still think we should get them.’ Danny said.

‘Greg’s dad is an ARP Warden, let’s tell him.’

We ran as fast as our 11-year-old legs would carry us and knocked frantically knocked on Gregory’s door. Mrs Evans opened it.

‘Hello boys Gregory is up the farm with his uncle.’

‘We need to talk to Mr Evans.’ I said panting.

‘Frank!’ Mrs Evans shouted.

Mr Evans came to the door.

‘There were Germans.’ Roger said.

‘Walking towards the hotel.’ I added.

‘Two of them.’ Danny said.

‘Okay boys.’ Mr Evans remained calm. ‘Come in and tell me exactly what you saw.’

Within 10 minutes of our explanation Mr Evans and Lewis the Butcher were heading off towards the Hotel in search of the Germans. They said they would pick up Mr Evans’ brother on the way. The three of us went home feeling proud that we’d done our duty for King and Country. Those crafty Krauts couldn’t fool us.

Two days later we were standing in assembly singing All Things Bright and Beautiful when Roger nudged me in the ribs. I looked at him offended but he was pointing at two men walking down the side of the hall.

‘It’s the Germans,’ he horse-whispered. It bloody well was as well. I nudged Danny.

‘The lord god made them all.’ The song came to an  end.

There was a kerfuffle as we al sat down. Roger, Danny and I wondering why there were Jerries in assembly.

‘Now children,’ Mr Richards started talking. ‘We know we ask you to be vigilant, to keep your eyes open, but not everything you see is suspicious. On Saturday we had a report of Germans in the town but this time it wasn’t the Nazis, it was these two gentlemen, Mr Novák and Mr Jirásek. They are from Czechoslovakia and are here teaching Czech children up at the hotel. Today they are here to tell you how they got here and what the Germans did to their country.’

I was blushing furiously, and could sense Roger and Danny were too, we hadn’t been heroes, we’d been fools.

The Day I Met My Hero

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This is based on a true story.

I hated days like these, it was St Swithin's Day, July 15 and it was 30 degrees in the shade. London was sweating, more precisely London Liverpool Street Station was sweating. Whoever the architect was who had designed the reconstruction of this elderly train station, obviously hadn't thought through the greenhouse effect on days like these. I’d dragged myself across London on the sweltering tube and now I was waiting for my train to Diss and beginning to understand how tomatoes felt.

Foreheads of the passers by glistened with sweat, while dark patches had formed under armpits and where rucksacks had been. It felt like little time bombs were ticking inside everyone's minds, that there was an accident waiting to happen. I could feel sweat dribble down my inside leg and yes that was as unpleasant as it sounds. The only thing keeping me on the right side of sanity were the dulcet tones of Billy Bragg playing in my ears.
‘It's that summer of the evening,’ the bard sang, it's that summer over-heating, I corrected him, before humming along to the rest of the song. I looked up at the screen, still no platform number for my train. I looked at the other passengers around me looking for inspiration for a story or poem.
Jesus fucking Christ there he was, the man whose songs were playing in my ears was standing right next to me. The man who had provided the sound tracks to my life was within touching distance. The man who had given me the songs to help me celebrate falling in love and whose songs had provided sympathy in break ups was waiting for a train as normal as you like. This man was my hero, this man was the reason I was a writer and this man was sweating next to me.
What should I do? Should I say hello, thank you or murhmurph? Should I ask for his autograph or a selfie? Or, just be cool and say nothing. After all I wasn’t some 13 year old One Direction fan I was a big boy now. But I should say hello shouldn't I? I looked again at the tall bearded man next to me. Maybe it wasn't him, maybe it was a lookalike, a tory voting lookalike who hated it when commies like me mistook him for the Bard of Barking, giving them a dose of the short sharp shock when they said hello. And it couldn't be him There was no guitar, surely Billy went everywhere with his guitar so it could apologise on his behalf.
Oh what to do, I wanted to say hello but  I was scared and we all know fear is a man's best friend. What if my hero wasn't the milkman of human kindness and told me to walk away; gave me the short answer. Then without warning Billy took a great leap forward, his platform had been announced and he was off to get on his train train. I shook my head in disappointment, and went back to wishing this day away.

If you enjoyed this story why not check out my novel Maggie's Milkman. 

All the words in bold are Billy Bragg song titles or approximations of, all the words in italics are lyrics or approximations of.