The Bath

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Vic’s new flat was all he needed. It was big enough for one and a half men to have space but not to get lost in and, when the half was with his mother, it didn’t feel too big for a forty-something man to rattle around in alone. For something so close to town it was unbelievably quiet, there was no noise from outside and only occasionally did the neighbours bleed through the wall. It was perfect except there was no bath. Now Vic was usually a shower man, he was with Kramer on this one, sittingin a tepid pool of his own filth didn’t appeal. So this absence of a tub was no problem. But every now and again he loved nothing more than to soak his tired body for an hour or so until his fingers were pruned.

Now, this minute, was one such occasion. Vic wasn’t just tired he was exhausted. Elis had been poorly all week so Vic had spent the week functioning on about a hour’s sleep a night. Then he’d done six shows in three nights and now he was running on empty.  A bath would soothe the pains in his arms, legs, hips, elbows, feet and fingers. Why were there no washhouses anymore? He made a decision; he’d book into a hotel and have himself a nice long bath.

Now Vic was no fool, he knew that the budget hotels didn’t do baths these days, wetrooms were the money saving fashion. But he knew of a little boutique hotel on the outskirts of town that had massive tubs. He got online, booked a room and got into his car looking forward to pampering himself.

There’s something a bit odd about checking into a hotel in your own town. It feels kind of naughty, a little surreal. You are home and away at the same time. He felt a bit daft filling in the card and putting an address that was in the same postal district, but Vic knew he wouldn’t care once his body hit the water. He climbed the stairs wearily and put the key card in the lock. He dropped his overnight bag and took off his sweater as he walked towards the bathroom door.

“No! No! No!” he said, and turned around. He immediately headed back down stairs.

“Excuse me,” the receptionist looked up from his paperwork.

“Yes, how can I help?”

“The website said all the rooms came with baths.” Vic said.

“Well they do sir,” the receptionist smiled a smile Vic wanted to wipe off his smug face.

“You can’t call that a bath, in room seven. It’s tiny.” he said. “It’s barely big enough for a child, Tom Cruise would struggle to relax in that. It’s no more a bath than a glorified bidet. I want to change rooms?”

“I’m sorry sir we’re fully booked sir,” the receptionist looked far too amused for Vic’s liking.

“So I want my money back then.” Vic said trying to remain calm.

“I’m sorry sir, we can’t do that; you have the no refund rate.”

“I want to see the manager.” Vic said, but he sensed he was fighting a losing battle.

“He’ll be along in the morning sir.”

Vic sighed and stormed back to his room, went into the bathroom and turned the taps on. He got in the bath and tried to get comfortable eventually finding a way to fit his metre seventy-eight into the metre long tub.  He’d come to have a bath so he would have one even if it meant lying in it with his legs up the wall.

An Adventure on a River Bank.

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This is my updated version of an old Welsh folk tale. I've put a 2016 spin on it. 

For the original go to the end of the story, after the adverts for my novels.  

Ianto had had a fantastic evening. Beer, friends and laughter, what more can a man want? But now it was time to go home. In times past Ianto would have stayed out and maybe turned a good night into one to forget or even one to regret. But those days were gone. These days he was a good boy; he’d learnt his lesson. He recognised that the laughter was less regular and the conversation less boisterous and the room was about to spin. It was time to say his goodbyes and take his leave.

A fine rain blew into Ianto’s face as he walked along the embankment, and the wind was nearly knocking him off his feet. He pulled his collar up and sunk his hands deep into his pockets feeling his new iPhone safely nestled there. That phone was his pride and joy. He took it out and glanced at the screen; not for any particular reason but just because he had one and he could.

As he switched the screen on a gust of wind far mightier than any before, knocked the phone clean out of Ianto’s hand and sent it tumbling down the bank towards the river.

Ianto looked into the dark abyss; his phone was somewhere down there, he had to get down and get it. He slid and slipped down the grassy knoll, his loafers giving him no grip in the wet mud. He lost balance and fell onto his arse with a crack. He screamed with pain. His phone was now forgotten as his leg throbbed.

“Help!” he yelled but no one passed by, no one came. The pain was getting worse, the cold biting in. Ianto was shivering so hard the movement was hurting his leg even more.

“Help!” He cried again, but still no one came.

Then out of the mist came a figure; only slight, almost childlike.

“Call the police, I’m hurt.” Ianto managed to moan.

“No need for the police,” the little man said, and despite his small stature picked Ianto up carried him up the bank with ease. Once at the top the man took Ianto into a nearby house and through to the kitchen. Ianto thought he could hear music and laughter, but that might have been his imagination.

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” the man said. “Meleri!” he called.

The door opened and the music grew louder and then faded again. In came a woman the same size as the man who took one look at the muddied and injured Ianto and started clucking around him. Within minutes he was dressed in clean clothes and was drinking a soup the like of which he’d never tasted before. Gone were the shivers, gone was the pain; he felt good as new.

“Join us,” the man said. “For we are celebrating my daughter’s birthday.”

Ianto was led through the house and introduced to all sorts of little people, no one was an inch over four foot six inches. Except for the last person he met, the man’s daughter, Olwen.

Olwen wasn’t tall but she was taller than those around her and she was by far the most beautiful woman Ianto had ever set eyes on. In his smart new clothes Olwen thought Ianto was pretty dapper too.

They drank and danced and laughed and nearly kissed. Her smile would light up the darkest of days and was certainly burning a hole in Ianto’s heart. Ianto had never been so happy; the only cloud was the loss of his iPhone, lost somewhere down that damn muddy bank.

“Stay the night,” Meleri said. He was disappointed when she offered him what looked like an awfully lumpy sofa bed and not a chance to share Olwen’s but at least he didn’t have to go back out into the storm. Looks can be deceptive, the makeshift bed was the most comfortable bed he’d ever slept it. He dreamt of Olwen and tasting those lips.

The next morning he was woken up not by a kiss from the wonderful Olwen but by a the stray dogs licking his face. He looked around and wondered where he was. Gone were his clean clothes, the sofa bed, the warm hospitable house. Instead he was in the doorway of the local branch of HSBC. His clothes muddied and only one loafer on his feet. He shooed the dog away and staggered to his feet. Despite the disappointment of not seeing Olwen, was chuffed to bits to see his phone lying next to him, caked in dirt but still working.

An Adventure in the Big Bog

A young harper of Bala was asked to play at a wedding in a farmhouse near Yspytty Ifan. When the joyous company broke up late at night he set off for home like the rest, but he had a much longer way to go than anyone else. When he was crossing the mountain a dense fog came on, and he lost his way. He was wandering about trying to find the path again, when he suddenly stepped into the Gors Fawr, "the big bog." The treacherous crust swayed for an instant under his tread, and then it broke. The soft mud oozed round his ankles, and he felt himself going further and further down. He tried to raise himself on his harp, but the only result of this was to plunge the beloved instrument into the bog, and he himself sank lower and lower. At last, with a desperate effort, he hurled himself full length upon the surface. The yielding crust caved under his body, and he clutched at the surface grass, but he only plucked the tufts from their roots. They gave him no hold. With every fresh effort to save himself he sank deeper. The gurgling slime sucked him down, down, down, and in the anguish of his soul he threw his head back in one last wild scream.

His cry was just dying away when the fog suddenly cleared, and a little man appeared on the brink of the bog. He threw a rope to the harper, who, after a great struggle, fastened it round his body under the arms. The little man pulled and pulled and gradually drew the harper out of the mire. He took him to a house blazing with light hard by, where there was singing and dancing and much revelry. The harper was given fine clean clothes, and after drinking a flagon of delicious mead he recovered sufficiently from the fright which the fall into the bog had given him to join in the festivity which was going on. There was a little lady there whom the company addressed as Olwen. She was the most beautiful little lady that the harper had ever seen and the best dancer. With her he danced hour after hour, and the only bitter in his cup of sweet was the thought that his beloved harp was in the slimy blackness of the Gors. When the whole company retired to rest he was put in a bed as soft as the softest down, and he thought he had reached a very heaven of delight.

But next morning he was awakened, not by a kiss from Olwen, but by the Plas Drain shepherd's dog licking his lips: he found himself lying by the wall of a sheepfold, and there was no trace of the house in which he had spent such a happy night. His clothes were all caked with bog mud, and his harp, which was in a clump of rushes at his feet, was black with the same defilement.

http://www.sacred-texts.com/neu/celt/wfb/wfb66.htm

Zombies

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It was like the zombie apocalypse had arrived while I was sleeping. The high street which had been a vibrant, sunny, bustling, hub of the community was now the pit of despair. People drifted around aimlessly; there were no cheery good mornings in the green grocers, no alright butts outside the betting shop, no have a nice days in the butchers; people grunted their hellos and mumbled their goodbyes.

The place looked like it had been washed on too high a temperature, colours had run and people shrunk. Faces were drawn and gaunt; smiles had been outlawed, frowns were commonplace.

There was tension in the air, mothers screamed at toddlers. Drivers leaned on their horns. Pedestrians tutted at those living life in the slow lane and cursed those pushing past them. A man jabbed his finger into the chest of a youth on a bike. Everyone was jerky, jumpy, jittery. What was going on?

“Gone,” said one near Zombie.

“You’re jokin’?” said her friend. “I was there yesterday.”

“Me too,” said the first. “But today, ‘sgone.”

“What the fuck are we gonna do?” Zombie two asked. “Where the fuck are we gonna get our …” I didn’t hear what she said but I guessed that some drugs den had been closed down by the police leaving the good people of Canton* desperate for their fix. That might explain one or two long faces but a whole community?

A strange buzzing filled their air. Were we being invaded by killer bees, or doodlebug aliens? I looked around for the cause of the source but there was nothing to be seen against the backdrop of grey. Light rain began to fall adding to the gloom and the droning got louder. I began to realised it was the mumbling of the zombies. Over and over again they chanted the same thing; desperation in their eyes, despair on their lips.

no sausage rolls,

no steak bakes,

no cheesy pasties,

no cream cakes,

no curry lattices,

no flatbread wraps,

no cheap coffees,

no breakfast baps.

It was then I saw it;the void, the black hole, the cause of the pain. A crowd had gathered come to see for themselves and now standing, staring in disbelief. It really was true. One man stood forward and hammered on the door, but no one came to answer his cries for help. A woman threw herself on the floor, inconsolable. Some posted a picture on Facebook and a petition was started on 38 Degrees. The droning started anew, louder, more desperate.

no sausage rolls,

no steak bakes,

no cheesy pasties,

no cream cakes,

no curry lattices,

no flatbread wraps,

no cheap coffees,

no breakfast baps.

Their worse fears had been realised.

Greggs the Baker** was closed for reconstruction.

*Canton is a small suburb of Cardiff known for it's vibrant high street. 

**Greggs the Baker is a cheap and cheerful chain of food outlets that is very popular for its sausage rolls and other savoury goods. There are more Greggs in the UK than there are McDonalds. 

Buried

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I felt sweat drip off my forehead and my breathing shorten. I flexed my fingers and looked at my watch for the third time in three seconds; time was up to its old tricks again. With my eyes closed I told myself everything was going to be okay; imagined myself somewhere else but it wasn’t working. I couldn’t control this. I couldn’t stop it. It was taking over me. I was breathing in the exhaust fumes of the other humans around me, each breath making me more breathless. I held my forehead between finger and thumb. A thousand spiders crawled on my skin making me shiver. My hands felt too large for my arms, my arms too long for my body. My legs were like redwood trees stuffed into jeans. I was being buried alive by my mind; gasping for breath, scratching at the earth, but there was no way out.

I was normally a pretty good flier, a seasoned traveller. Taking off and landing seemed as commonplace to me as getting on and off a bus. But I always got an aisle seat, usually 23C, and could always get up and stretch my legs anytime I needed. But they hadn’t let me choose my seat for this one, so I was in a window seat, stuck in a corner, with no room to manoeuvre. The plane was full to bursting point; there was no way out.  The couple next to me were a sweet Spanish pair who had no idea of the turbulence in my head, while sweat poured from my brow they wittered on in Spanish. These average-sized people were giants in my eyes and were growing bigger by the second. Their huge bodies were hemming me into my tiny seat, trapping me in my economy class grave. They were torturing me while innocently enjoying the first few moments of their holiday. There was no Stockholm syndrome here; through no fault of their own, I hated them with a passion I normally reserved for Tories.

“Everything’s fine, it’s only a short flight. It’s going to be okay, it’s only a short flight.” I was mumbling to myself like a Gregorian monk and wringing my hands like Lady Macbeth, Out, I needed to get out of this damned spot. I’d never had a panic attack before but there was a first time for everything. There was no stopping it now. I was careening out of control. I could hear my heart in my ears and feel my face redden.

“I got to move! Now!” I said. My two row mates looked at me startled.
“I’m sorry,” I said, trying to make myself sound slightly less crazy. “Would you mind if we swapped seats.”

“Qué?” The husband said.

“Can we swap?” I said loudly, realising I sounded like a Brit abroad. “I don’t feel well.” I put two fingers down my throat to signify this.

This was my only chance.

They looked at each other and gabbled in Spanish.

“Por favour,” I tried to do my best puppy dog eyes. They looked up and down the plane obviously seeing if there were other options available.

“I’ll let you get out anytime you need to,” I said, but they didn’t understand me. The hope that I had was slowly evaporating. They looked liked they were going to say no, to keep me imprisoned in my own private hell. The seconds dragged. How much was there to discuss? It was a simple yes or no answer; there was not  four options, no chance to win a million, no option to phone a friend.

“Make up your bloody minds,” I mumbled.

“Sí,” the man said. I felt relief flush through my body. I could kiss him but I thought the moustache might scratch, so thought better of it.

“Gracias, gracias.” I said as we stood up and moved despite the seat belt signs being on.  Incurring the wrath of the cabin staff was the least of my worries. I sat down and put my head back and cherished my new found freedom. Only two seats, only one metre away, but the air felt fresher over here; it felt like I was running in a meadow.

I closed my eyes and listened as the rumble of the engine began to change pitch as we taxi along the runway picking up speed. Within seconds we were airborne and I felt as free as a bird.