Author: Kirsty Lewin

Categories
found poetry poetry

Worse neighbours than a church

Borrowing fragments from two women talking loudly in a library.

Talking pet shop next door lovely book shop huge thinking somewhere else any busier so many customers I volunteer on the way they ask you questions I get my bus pass certainly not defeats the object could you do (a hit?). April it’s been dead quiet twenty-one forty-nine marauding people destroy your rest don’t go there to run around not the fastest along the front there must be if you’re here there isn’t the crematorium not many houses go on get off. Crumbs what a shame.

Born in the hall.

I knew there was something wrong your car was in the street with the doors wide open.

Yadder yadder yadder.

I was very keen not to have one I would wiggle along Great Western five minutes to get there too late a journey is fine unless you lock out the window the left wiggle drops off to regulate the hospital not done only once takes so long parked felt bad taking a patient of course the medical students always remember.

Placenta.

Something can’t quite can’t remember fifty miles multi-story (see what I did there?) they’re usually lying it’s not clear call centre hell no evidence oh no no record of that oh my word awake early dozed cat half-five party time (woman A makes cat noises) all facilities available must be hard never did last summer honestly usually about seven very gently on my nose actually asleep no claws worked out the other day it just got (woman A laughs) wow a bit over attached just give me the drugs literally drive in vultures going around around around around the smallest spaces.

Fourteen.

Go in frankly you go in yourself almost completely blind not just round the corner next Monday one night don’t hospitals enjoy urgency (woman B checks phone) doesn’t know where he is twenty-one past my three in the morning remember parking last park last year the whole flipping lot out of hours doesn’t have accidents in the house (woman B checks phone) we don’t have that issue wouldn’t mind if you yeah yeah yeah no it’s not unreasonable that’s the thing but I’m not that’s your problem changing light lovely coffee little bit shortbread wee bit she walks he walks out lovely pubs how the crows fly lovely lovely lovely opposite the kitchen.

Dogs in beds.

It’s a bit you know cats are clean I don’t know not all shower the dog merging nice walk in the postcodes when we were younger still on the go God knows what probably the biggest on the lead very close others to be fair I mean a small child I do remember I remember single carriages oh my goodness sorry catching (woman B yawns) just a single bed quick useful in that bottom terrible cough just after new year lovely cosy a bit of a hike that bed in an uproar so frequent honestly bypass sometimes advertises think mmm (woman B receives incoming text).

(Interrupted by librarian scrubbing desks).

Guess they want to wherever whenever foreign even English speakers which bus should you get oh my word biting because being picked up just coming the way the wind shuts your eyes yes yes yes that night vents yet almost we don’t either much easier dehydrate they were annoying me you weren’t were you funny hot water (woman A checks phone) bottle your feet fancy feet warmers push into them plugged in obviously cold cold shoes cold feet old fashioned work just the first time don’t use. (Church clock chimes across the street). Bells.

Would always never noticed until now funeral service (woman B checks phone) just randomly peal funeral there are worse neighbours than a church side streets woman crying you can’t wont don’t understand drove the hearse message them can’t can’t can’t can’t pissed understand, understand?

Image – St John’s Church, Edinburgh.

Categories
blog

Partial knee replacement

Introduction. Don’t go looking. I went looking. Progress at one week. Three. That amount of flexion. This amount of pain. Those miles of walking. These miles of cycling. Will my leg ever be straight. When to go back to work. How much weight loss is normal. What about fatigue. What does overreach even mean?

I don’t have the answers for these things. We are all different and comparing ourselves to others can be dispiriting. So this is a story with few numbers. No milestones to compare yourself to. It’s just my experience and how I approached some of the challenges of rehab and daily living after a lateral partial knee replacement in my right knee.

The anaesthetic. I was offered a spinal, accepted a spinal, and woke up in the operating theatre (don’t remember this) to complain of pain. Knocked out with a general anaesthetic immediately. Yes there was a lot of pain afterwards. No, I couldn’t control it. Not for the first few days. The great thing about pain is that it’s almost impossible to remember once it’s gone – and it will go. You just have to slog through it. I was in hospital for two nights but could have stayed longer if I’d wanted to. And yes, I did want to. But I hauled on my big girl pants and left on the Sunday evening – forty eight hours after waking up from surgery.

Painkillers. Left the hospital with paracetamol, codeine and some break through oxycontins. Never touched the latter. A good tip seems to be to take the painkillers for longer than you think you need them, always ensure you have pain cover for physiotherapy sessions, and taper down the stronger tablets first (codeine) and keep the paracetamol going. You can break the codeine tablets in half, and mix and match with different strengths of Co-codamol. I took paracetamol four times a day for a few weeks, then dropped down to just as required. If you’re taking codeine you’ll need to up the fibre in your diet, drink plenty of water and possibly add in a laxative. Happy times.

Sticks. I started on a walking frame, using it for a day immediately post-op, then progressed straight to crutches (the ones that you can hang off your arms). I live in a top flat (three flights of stairs) and had no problem going up and down once I got home (more on that later). At some point I moved to one crutch, and stopped using the crutch when I kept walking away without it. It was useful to take the one crutch out with me even after I didn’t need it. It felt safer, and was a good signal to bus drivers that they shouldn’t drive off until I’d sat down.

Going home. The first week was hard. Tiring, sore and difficult to move around. I stayed with friends for a week and would have struggled to manage at home on my own. I needed looking after. Having my meals cooked for me. A little help with the TED stockings for a couple of days. A hand into the shower. Some tender loving care.

Stocking up. I stocked the freezer before my operation, bought bulk food that was easy to prepare, and brought lots of fruit and vegetables home with me after a week away. Standing up to cook and do dishes was hard, but got easier quickly. Having a small kitchen was a godsend. I could swivel between the sink and the hob with little effort. I ate a lot of porridge and quiche (never together).

Sleeping. Getting comfortable in bed for the first few weeks was tough. I was advised not to sleep with a pillow under my knee (it would prevent my leg from straightening) and I managed that for the first couple of weeks but buckled eventually and used the pillow. Once I could turn over in bed and sleep on my side I put a pillow between my knees which helped. Sleeping on a fifteen year old concrete futon is not ideal post knee surgery.

Washing. I do love a bath board! The hospital team gave me a board to take home, but, while I was staying with friends I used their shower. The board and a non-slip mat in the bath were essential (my shower is over the bath) safety measures, and meant I could relax without worrying about slipping. The board has now moved on to the next patient – a friend who broke her ankle just before Christmas. I gave the board up when I had enough knee flexion to step in and out of the bath easily.

Staple removal. Not going to lie, it hurt. I booked the appointment with the nurse as soon as I left hospital (advice was to have the staples removed 10-12 days after surgery). It only took a few minutes but she did miss one (hard to see in amongst the swelling) and we spotted the silver glint just before I left. I should have taken strong painkillers in advance. Got a telling off from the nurse for not taking my dressings (provided by the hospital) in to cover the wound once the staples were out. REMEMBER TO TAKE YOUR DRESSINGS.

Physiotherapy. Physiotherapy wasn’t provided with my surgery so I arranged it myself. I found a local private practice two blocks from my flat (it was vital that I could get to physiotherapy on my own) and booked the first appointment for a few days after the staple removal (around three weeks after surgery). I wanted to get started quickly, and the sessions hurt – both at the time and afterwards. For me, physiotherapy meant goals, measuring progress (for example knee flexion and straight leg), having a professional on hand for reassurance and questions, and doing the stuff I couldn’t do myself (for example getting into the scar early to avoid the build up of scar tissue). I went every week until I was swimming and cycling, then dropped it to fortnightly.

Exercise. At home I already had a turbo trainer (my touring bike is on that), yoga blocks, therabands, ankle weights and hand weights. I bought a 6 mm yoga mat -the extra thickness made the physio exercises at home more comfortable. I had (and still have) a daily routine set out by the physiotherapist which he has changed every few weeks as I get stronger. This is a mix of stretches, strengthening exercises, and exercises to improve my knee flexion. Knee flexion has been relatively easy but getting a straight leg has proven much more elusive. As I write this (around week ten) I’m still around half a degree off that holy grail.

I started on the turbo trainer early on (ten minute sessions) and had to buy a step ladder to get onto it. I started off in an easy mode (spinning) and increased the resistance over time. I’m also lucky enough to live close to a swimming pool. I was in the pool soon after my wound had fully healed, doing gentle exercises before starting front crawl with a pool buoy between my knees, then progressing to wearing fins – and now I do a few lengths with fins, a couple without, a few with etc.

Walking. I’ve been advised to keep increasing the distance I walk but it’s been tricky in icy conditions. I started with a few steps in my street, building up to a block. My target was getting to the local Scotmid to buy supplies. Initially my leg felt stiff and sore, then I struggled with spatial awareness (standing on one leg is good for that, progressing to standing on a cushion to get a bit of a wobble.). The spatial awareness issue has resolved but I’m still conscious of my knee when walking. I was anxious on my first couple of trips into town on my own (using the bus) and tired afterwards. I was surprised at the level of fatigue even several weeks post surgery. Nobody mentioned that! I’m now able to walk further than I could when my knee was flaring (before the surgery).

Cycling. Before the operation I was advised to stay off my bike (outside) for around twelve weeks. This was for safety purposes. While I’d probably have enough flexion to cycle, the rough road surfaces and unpredictable drivers, dogs and pedestrians would be too risky. However, at my follow up with my surgeon around seven weeks, she advised I could start earlier. Again, I started gently, cycling off-road initially for ten minutes, with the second outing half an hour. I’m expecting to cycle to work next week.

Work. Going back to work will depend on what you do, whether you can work at home, and your employer. I am able to work at home, and have a supportive employer. I did a few hours of work in my fourth week post-op, had a two week break over Christmas, and then went back to my normal working pattern. The main challenge has been to remember to stand up every hour and do some physio to prevent stiffening up. As I work part time, I’ve been able to do more extensive physio on my days off, with lighter exercises on working days. And yes it was tiring going back!

Kneeling. Yep – it’s happening! Lots of people worry about this. I’ve been working on it over the last week, kneeling on a cushion and initially putting most of my weight through my unaffected leg. I’m starting yoga in a couple of weeks and I’ll be looking for postures that help my kneel confidently.

Aches and pains. Pain comes and goes in different places at different times. My main issues, outside the expected pain, have been pain across my knee cap during one particular exercise (leg raise off chair), and pain associated with a very tight ITB. I’m working on the ITB (stretches and spiky ball) and the knee cap pain will dissipate over time.

Cranial osteopathy. A few days before the operation, I had a cranial osteopathy treatment. Following surgery, I had a few more treatments. The treatments were calming and helpful in reducing pain as well as improving my mobility and stimulating the healing process.

So that’s it. As I write this, I’m just nine weeks post-op. The journey hasn’t been linear. Some weeks have been easier than others, and the seventh week was particularly unforgiving. There were a few tears in the first couple of weeks. I lost an astonishing amount of weight and am trying to put it back on. Chocolate and cheese is an ace combo. My friends have been superstars – providing emotional support and lots of shopping. I’ve stayed motivated, and worked hard. I have to make all of struggle worthwhile. If you’re starting out on this process, I wish you well. If you’re ahead of me, I hope your rehab is going as well as it can for you. It’s a long but fruitful haul.

Categories
diary musings

Room 229

Slim man with with the unsung promise of a pastiche moustache carries our bag to the second last room on the left on the ground floor. 

Giggle but we don’t tip.

Inspect. The call button that controls the bed and the lights. The bathroom with its limpet green miniatures and its roll-in shower. The locked drug cabinet for our Vitamin D. 

Lean our carried-in crutches in the corner. Empty our clean knickers into the drawer. Admire the plump calm swell of the tree from the window.

Solemn conversations with the pharmacist, the anaesthetist, the consultant surgeon and the woman with the menu card.

Legs dance and fingers slip slide around the plastic biro.

Sign.

Accept the delivery. A hospital gown and paper knickers. Disposable slippers in a sealed plastic bag. 

Change in the bathroom. Struggle with the ties at the back of the gown. Wear our red striped silk robe as a dressing gown picked up in Pakistan in 2001 (you may have seen Hamid Karzai wear a similar one).

It is time. Summoned by the Anaesthetic OPD. Follow him along the corridor in our flapping disposable slippers. Climb onto the trolley in the anaesthetic room.

Can you feel my fingers? Can you feel my fingers?

Yes, yes we say. On repeat. Something about the spinal anaesthetic isn’t right.

Deep breaths, everyone says. Deep breaths.

Shaking.

Pushed into the operating theatre. Last memory of overhead lights. 

Wake up half an hour into surgery. Our knee is sore, we say. We don’t remember this.

I topped you up with a general, she says in the wash up. I didn’t know whether it was you or the drugs talking.

Someone takes off our paper knickers, cutting them clean with neat cold blades.

Consultant surgeon drops in and says everything went well, it went to plan, she says.

Soft. Coddled.

Pain canons in just after the first biscuit. 

Joy calls us darling, Nancy calls us darling, Eden calls us darling, love. 

Shift changes. Shapeshifters.

Blood pressure, pulse, oxygen level, temperature. On the hour every hour.

Alone, watching the minute hand limp limp limp across the off-white night.

Fire. Everything white hot, monstering.

Breathe, great gulps of jittery breath, turning the dial to Radio 3, it helps, someone said, although do avoid anything with too much cymbal.

Tell the tunics about the brawling brutes clamped around our knee.

Bare pale round flesh for sharp jab (morphine). 

Write first lines in the ceiling. Agree at least it will be we.

Shift change. Shifting shapes. Breakfast. Porridge, apple juice and prunes (we put sensible above joy when we ordered this).

Resistance is lying on a cardboard bedpan. Resistance revenge is a bladder scan and a catheter. 

Release.

They make us choose our own analgesia. We don’t want choice, just poppers. 

Offered slow release or instant relief. We make our decision based on the impact on our bowels.

(We have been here before.)

Day lengthens and shortens.

Wash from a cardboard bowl and disposable wipes.

Cardboard sick bowl for toothpaste spitting.

Semblance of dressed.

Parade of different coloured tunics.

We’ll get you up. 

We shake we say we can’t stop shaking.

They empty, measure, empty, measure, empty.

You’ll get up on the walker first.

Catheter removal must be by a nurse who is the same sex as the patient.

First bend tears us up. 

As does the sudden stiff descent on a toilet designed for small people. 

If we’d known, we say to anyone, we wouldn’t have gone through with it.

Eighty degrees already, darling.

You’re doing so well, darling.

Pee in the card bowl resting in the toilet.

Drink, stagger, shriek, pee, measure. Repeat.

Oxys.

Surgical staples, diamante style.

Her son met his wife in Afghanistan. Miss, she calls us, handing us pale bloated macaroni cheese. Black tunic, pink dancing shoes. Such tiny shoes.

Warfarin. Belly bruise the colour of doves.

Eyes follow Strictly, spangle fizz, our toes wriggle away clots.

You spin me round round round you spin me round.

You finished that, love?

Sorbet is blood orange, served in a glass sundae dish.

Categories
fiction musings

Notes on a scandal

Once upon a time a queen died. She was 96 years old and she died in a big old castle in Scotland in 2022. The Queen, it is said, was a constant rock throughout her 70 year reign over her subjects, which isn’t hard because if a rock isn’t constant, it’s probably not a rock. She had blue eyes and an enchanting smile. She dressed like a stick of Blackpool rock and her hats were always the same colour as her frocks. She even had matching handbags but nobody knows what was in them, if anything at all. She liked horses and corgis and she shot birds out of the sky that had been especially bred just for that. She made sure that many laws that applied to her subjects didn’t apply to her or her land but she was the Queen so you be the judge on whether that was right or wrong.

It is said that one of her dying wishes was to see the end of Prime Minister Johnson, a flabby man that didn’t dress well or own a comb and had so many children even the Queen’s Mathematician couldn’t count them. She didn’t want him dead of course, just out on his ear.

Since the Magna Carta, a paper that says royals can’t be naughty and abuse their power, queens and kings have had to be careful with prime ministers. They don’t have to like them, though. This queen, Queen Elizabeth II, she thought Prime Minister Johnson was a bampot.

Prime Minister Johnson had made the Queen sad by having parties when the Queen’s husband died during the plague. He also made life a bit embarrassing for her by advising her to suspend the Parliament. He did this to stop Members of Parliament asking difficult questions about the Government’s crazy plan to leave the European Union (known as Brexit). Leaving the European Union would cause all sorts of problems for the people and animals and make many of the people cry but the Government said this was just ‘project fear’ and the people who didn’t want this Brexit were ‘talking down this great country’. Later project fear came to pass but that’s for another time when we look at the break up of the United Kingdom.

Anyway this suspension, known as prorogation (that was a big new word for lots of people in the country), was all very humiliating for the Queen because she ordered the suspension on the advice of the Johnson government and then the highest judges in the land said naughty naughty, that was against the law. What was a queen to do?

It was a man called Pincher, who was said to have groped two people at a dinner party (groping is a VERY BAD THING) that eventually brought Prime Minister Johnson down, not the naughty suspension of Parliament or the plague parties or any of the other one thousand and one scandals.

The United Kingdom was a funny old place then and the people were coming out of a plague that killed 190,000 and you just never knew what mud would stick and what mud would slide but either way a mud pie was a mud pie and we all liked slinging them, right?

So the Queen’s dying wish came true and the Queen said goodbye to Prime Minister Johnson and hello to Prime Minister Truss who wasn’t elected by the people but planted by an evil group of plotters who wanted to make the rich richer and the poor starve and freeze. Prime Minister Truss became famous on Twitter for her footballer curtsy and her witch’s hat and her strange fascination with cheese and pork markets.

After she said hello to Prime Minister Truss the Queen died and the people got a new king, King Charlies III. Some people thought that Prime Minister Truss poisoned the Queen but nobody dared say it out loud because in those days any old thing was treason even standing in the street holding a blank sign.

The Queen loved her subjects, and she also knew that all 68 million of them enjoyed a queue. So the Queen, whose favourite pastime was playing Snakes and Ladders with real snakes and real ladders, decided to gift her people a queue. This gift was to make up for the one thousand and one scandals under Prime Minister Johnson and the decimation of public services and the bedroom tax and all the sewage in the sea and rivers and the fact that people had to go to food banks and that fat cat landlords had got fatter and fatter and climate change was destroying everything and low traffic neighbourhoods were a war on the motorist. The Queen wasn’t that bothered about climate change but her son Charles was so she threw that in for good measure.

So the Queen prepared to gift to her people the longest most respectful queue in the world as part of her funeral arrangements. A queue for the Guinness Book of Records. A queue fit for the 21st century. A queue fit for the fifth longest-reigning monarch ever (Louis XIV beat her by two years and was more stylish by a country mile). The problem was she had to die to make the queue.

The Queen was very religious and although she was a Christian we don’t know if she prayed to the God of Queues. The God of Queues is interfaith and was available to everyone in the United Kingdom no matter what their religion or creed. We are still learning about the ceremonies associated with the God of Queues and whole departments in universities are dedicated to researching these curious rituals. The Queen wanted to make a queue to die for and she must have planned it for a long time, or at least have had her servants plan it. The Queue, for it had a capital Q just like the Queen, became a Thing.

There was an Edinburgh Queue and a London Queue but I refer to them here simply as the Queue. Both of these Queues involved people standing in a line for a very long time waiting to see a coffin with the dead queen. The coffin was closed and so the people could only see a box not a dead queen but the people didn’t mind this, they wanted to see the box.

Some famous people made sure they were seen by the box in their best hats. Prime Minister Truss wore a witch’s hat. The wives of the Queen’s grandsons wore large wide-brimmed black hats even though it wasn’t summer. A little princess wore a boater hat last seen in a children’s book in 1867. A lot of men wore funny hats that you have probably seen in museums.

Back to the Queue. The Queue had its own micro-climate, its own App, fans, critics, fawning journalists, tickets, security, sonnets, experts, anthems, selfies, signs, joining instructions, an unwritten constitution, pavement games, Dunkin-donuts, dancing police officers, commemorative memorabilia, three French hens, Twitter threads, TikTok memes, pickpockets, B-list celebrities, Facebook adverts, has-been footballers, jumpers, hipsters, bedazzled toddlers, history makers, history takers, dog creches, fish and chips, chicken salads, gin flasks, tea flasks, tea dances, felafels in wraps, Marks and Spencers hampers, bottled water, first-aiders, blank signs, sugar free Pepsi, men that were dragged off by the police, women that were followed by the police, hawkers, snake-oil merchants, litter-pickers, butchers, bakers and candlestick makers, socialists, monarchists, marxists, scientists, florists, breakfast TV has-beens, and a lot of shite spoken about very little at all.

The Queen, a wee old lady who died of wee old age and gifted her Queue to the masses, would have been thrilled.

Categories
memoir musings

notes on a funeral

Eight hours, Martha Kearney says, eight hours. (And the ten days that went before, Martha, the ten days?)

Nick Robinson has a wee chat with Dame Kelly Holmes. Bright blue is mentioned. And her investiture. And how wee the Queen was. The dame queued and queued just like normal people.

Someone measures something to do with the procession with a stick. I miss that bit. I’m trying CROWN on Wordle. Two out of five ain’t bad.

Chime.

I have one black sweater. It has a chocolate smear around the navel. I opt for the pale green sweatshirt my mother gave me. A cast-off. Warm but pallid. Evanesces my thin lips in a dance across the Forth.

Her death left a giant hole in the global stage.

She was a point of reassurance.

Psalm 42. Put thine trust in God.

Any weeping I do will be for the planet. I well up.

Jacob Rees-Mogg is seen on a bus.

Where are the Oxford commas?

Chime.

She’s got those wonderful blue eyes. That unforgettable smile.

The machinery of state.

Chime.

Over on Twitter a woman calls a baby a fascist.

Over on Twitter it’s CODE For All – Summit 2022. Join in tonight fellow geeks with critiques.

Chime.

She, Truss, will lead a lesson at this service.

I think you’re right, Martha.

She was the mother of servicemen.

The Octopus Energy customer service team is sorry to hear that my smart meter is still not working after six months.

Liz Truss with her husband.

Liz Truss now taken to her place.

Sombre clouds doing their sombre thing on the smiling women standing in the sombre water chest deep.

Royal claret, nearly black.

Not a black dry-robe amongst them.

And the crowd erupting in applause.

Over on Twitter a train silently pays its respects to the Queen.

Over on Twitter video screens are already blaring into an empty park.

Clop clop clop

The Family very much acknowledging the crowd that lines the Mall.

Tethered by ropes and chains.

There is sand on the corners of Parliament Square.

The tradition of moving a monarch.

Two minutes with the frozen peas. Two minutes with the hot water bottle. Repeat. End with the frozen peas.

Overheard on the Promenade: This is where all the antimonarchists are then.

Gem encrusted cross.

The sword.

More from Radio 4. My mum would sneak me into gigs under her coat and How did low and no-alcohol drinks get so popular?

There is complete silence here as the bearer party move into position.

Over on Twitter Mark is #cycling the Innerleithan Granites Gladhouse loop with Cam today.

At the time of writing there are no union jacks on the Promenade or the beach.

A sailor may have fainted.

A little boy on a little electric bike on the Promenade this is a little dangerous.

A BBC commentator refers to older ladies. In 2022. Let that sink in.

So many men. #funeral

In the work of the Lord.

It’s reigning men. #funeral

Let us pray.

They came with their deck chairs and their paddle boards and their water-proof bags for their phones.

My phone rings. I fail to get to it in time what with not finding both crutches.

Take one paracetamol and one co-codamol 15/500 at 2pm.

Scotmid on Bath Street is closed for seven hours.

A Herring gull eats a rat.

The soul of Elizabeth our late queen.

Over on Twitter Andy can’t recall the Scottish stereotypes in it.

Over on Twitter maggots key to crisis-time fertiliser for Ugandan farmers.

The spider in the bathroom sink is not moving despite a poke with a cautious finger.

(Organ music. God save our gracious king).

What do you call a murder of ex-prime ministers (dressed in black)?

An email from East Coast Organics. This is to confirm your payment of £12.73.

Reservoir Dogs.

An email from Microsoft Spam Fighters. Just checking.

So many flies for a sombre September afternoon.

A friend visits with spinach and satsumas and a cucumber and tinned dhal. Ten days after falling off my bike I am still confined to a 40 metre radius.

One of the corgis is called Windsor.

I can see the seat where her Majesty sat.

I make a salad. I limp I make a salad.

Below me now, the coffin.

Below me now, a laughing child.

A fly cannot find its way out.

Buzzing.

I’ve heard the streets are so quiet you could picnic in them.

If that wasn’t treason.

The orb, the sceptre and the crown.

Sirens on Portobello High Street. The rushing silence of a cancelled train.

The Queen’s children and grandchildren.

(I like that Q in italics. See how it curtseys and birls).

Over on Twitter people keep retweeting this humiliating video of Boris Johnson’s failed queue jumping attempt.

Rejoicing in the power of the Holy Spirit.

Three pigeons plucking fleas on the television aerial on the Victorian tenement across the road.

(Organ music. God save our gracious king).

Where the ashes of Princess Margaret are also interred.

A purely private ceremony. (That was a commentator, not me).

The most extraordinary service.

The large black Labrador that sniffs around my crutches.

Broadcasters have bogged dulled deepened.

Eight hours on and time for the debrief.

A dramatic and important development.

4 billion people.

The Archbishop spoke very well.

Over on Twitter surprising degrees of saltiness in accounts describing why naval ratings pull the funeral gun carriage at state funerals…

Over on Twitter Counting Dead Women.

No lettuces so she buys spinach instead.

Profound Christian faith bore so much fruit.

Email: Portobello Community Council notice of 396th meeting on 26th September 2022.

The sovereign always exists, the person only is changed.

The image is taken from the BBC website, today 18 September 2022.

Categories
found poetry

Beckham Wipes Pays

has joined paying seen looking paused shown bowed looked walked pictured wearing paused bared queued wearing joined saying thought coming going speaking was speaking called told meant can speak able meet stood wore had sang was meant did told was be are hear was took were was able have be remember been.

has queued pay will visit been pictured joining viewing cut pictured joining grieving wore opted wore stood lying-in-state died known filming making wearing seen looking waited paying said saw feel meant inspired comforted served have known loved are were forced pause reached read has be paused are sorry snaked predicted appeared paid queuing

Picture credit – Avalon.red (cropped from a picture in The Sun online 16 September 2022)

Categories
found poetry poetry

making history

emotional or beloved or selfless and historic and solemnly and remarkable though dedicated though young though precious but unsurpassed but selfless but faithfully after greatest after kind after touchingly although beloved although moving although emotional before good before golden before inspiring if deep if unparalleled if solemn once treasured once beloved once deeply when historic when dedicated when public so joyous so unstinting so reassuring until difficult until long until inspiring that deep that unparalleled that everlasting as infectious as beloved as esteemed since grand since passionate since greatest

Categories
fiction monologue

Lizzie

The queen is dead. Heavy shite. Saw it coming. Told you she was on her last legs. Told you two weeks ago, pal. Course I did. That wee shuffle. Practically fell out of her baffles. You calling me a liar, pal? Another pint, pal, aye, Tennents. Poor thing. Couldn’t even get back to Windsor for the end. Imagine dying in this shithole. Hardworking right up to the line. Dedicated. True patriot. Don’t make them like that anymore. Must have broke her heart to see Boris go. Judases the lot of them. Best thing ever happened to Britain Boris. Not that Truss is bad. Quite the opposite. But shouldn’t have come to this. Seven quid? For a pint? You a bampot or what? Bring on the tax cuts. What do you mean I don’t pay taxes? Boris would’ve cut them if it hadn’t been for that out of touch Sunak. Couldn’t even put petrol in someone else’s car. Jumped up wee bawbag. Him and his green card and his snickering wife. Most overtaxed country in the world Britain. Lost our backbone. Nats put this country on its knees. Rubbish everywhere and now the rats. Ma poor Mam dying waiting for an ambulance after the rat bite. You don’t believe me, pal? Place was swarming with the fat wee vermin. Saw the toothmarks myself. Puncture wounds that neat could have been a serpent. Everything broken is broken by the nats. All that oil in the north sea and the nats still taxing the shite out of petrol. Change the subject? I haven’t even started, pal. National Mourning, it’s like the sky’s fallen, pal. I’m in National Mourning. Move your head, pal, don’t wan’t to miss it. Fine curtsy and everything by Lizzie there. Just the way I like it. Not like that robot May doing the lumbago to Prince Harry. Or was it some Saudi prince? Not overdressed either. Just the right humbleness. Suits her, black. I’ll tell her that, first time I write. She could do with something to hide her neck though. Scrawny when they’re over thirty. Scarf maybe. Or one of those velvet chokers with a dangly silver bit. Didn’t I tell you she was on her way out? You don’t remember, pal? Course I did. The colour of her hands. All grey around the wrists. Dead giveaway. Two Lizzies together. Dream team. Of course that’s her diamond. Better off here, be nicked otherwise. Anyway all above board. Salt and Vinegar, no, not Cheese and Onion, plays havoc with ma heartburn. Would’ve been a dream team. Lizzie Squared. And her eyes. I could see it in her eyes. Clouded, you ken, like she was jetting off to the milky way. Joining her Philip. Now he was a man’s man. Said it how it was. None of this woke shite, pal. Clean shot at the pheasants every time. Gave him a bad press they did for saying what’s what. All that bollocks about Andrew that lassie was making it up. That idiot journalist. What was her name? Emma something? Got sacked anyway. Heard that on good authority. Could see it in that lassie’s eyes. Mingin wee gold diggers those American kids. One sniff of a prince. What? Course he isn’t a nonce. Not with a mother like that, pal. Her Maj got the new PM over the line. Slipped away. Glad I got that last letter to her. Would have been comforting reading those words. Good at writing I am. Ken Charles would make an arse of it. Pompous pond life. Sucker even gets booed in Edinburgh. The way he treated Our Di. Our Di. People’s Princess. Should have been thrown out then. Defrocked. What do you mean that’s priests? Don’t contradict me, pal. You got Candle in the Wind on the juke box, pal? Barry tune that, barry. Remember that stuff about the tampax what a shitey wee jessie.  Told her that myself in some of my letters. Go straight to Will, I said. Jump a generation. Kept saying. Women need told things a few times for it to sink in. Didn’t get a reply but she’s a busy woman Her Maj so no hard feelings none at all.  Aye, pal if you just wipe the table down a bit. Toasting our Maj, need a clean table! Couldn’t get to the coffin what with the gammie leg and all. Hero Her Maj hung in there to the bitter end. Poor Lizzie. Shouldn’t blame herself. She will, though. Decent woman. Human, you ken what I mean? Caring. Going to put stuff right. All those trade deals and everything. Cheese wasn’t it? Put us on the straight and narrow. On the global map. Growth and what was it? Proclivity, that’s it. Won’t take no shit from no one especially that Nicola. Aye dead right to just ignore her. Polite way of putting it. Lizzie Truss, fine name for a fine leader. I mean they were gunning for Boris. All of them. Not Her Maj but that Sturgeon, Salmond, all of them. That snidely wee Javid. That time Sturgeon snubbed Her Maj. Didn’t even curtsey or nothing. Refusing to let her in the parliament. Vile wee munter. BBC didn’t even report it. They weren’t going to let her in after independence. What pal? Course that’s nae a lie. Apologised for her in one of my letters. Well not for her. You ken what I mean, pal. Stopping her at the border. Imagine. Pond life. Of course it’s true. You’re either not looking or you’re stupid, pal. That woman devoted her life to this country and they were going to boot her out just like that. Marxist wee shites. Taking the castle and looting the jewels. Sturgeon that stopped ma benefits. Aye denied it but we all know. What do you mean it wasnae her, course it was, pal. And her taking dark money too. Hiding behind them fancy shoes. Who goes to work in shoes like that? Can’t even get the traffic flowing. Bloody cycle lanes holding everything up. Can’t even get parked in ma own street. Even refused to put Her Maj on Scottish bank notes. Pathetic. They wanted her off the passports, too. Sent her one of ma passport photos in a letter. Women like to see a face behind a name. Shed a tear when I heard the news. More than a tear. I greeted, pal. Proper greetin. We all did. Bet she was pissed to die in Scotland where the nats hate her. Aye, all pretendy now. Gushing. Don’t’ know what I’ll do without her. Got ma jubilee mug, though. What, you don’t have a jubilee mug, pal? You glaikit wee shite! Only the one chip after all these years. Charles and all that shite about the climate and tampax. Jesus we could do with some more warm in Scotland what with the nats cutting off the energy and free tampax for everyone. Scunnered the economy the pricks. We’ll rue the day that’s what I say you ken we’ll rue the day the queen is dead.

Categories
blog fiction musings

On beauty

I am not beautiful. I know this because a damson-faced man in a sad silver Mercedes (circa 1990) called me a fucking wee slag. Fucking wee slags are not beautiful. Especially when they’re the other side of fifty-five. Damson-faced men with concertina-slabbed bellies know a thing or two about beauty. They practically invented it. There they squat in the spill of an autumn morning, their foxy grey y-fronts cutting deep circumspect lines where their waists might have been. Damson-faced men drive with a psoriasis-spun elbow out of the smudged grease of a window that no longer shuts, not even close.

I am not beautiful. I know this because a tall beautiful man I lived with took it upon himself to grab me, to force me up against our kitchen bench, to push so hard my hand, of its own trembling accord, reached around behind me for a knife I knew I couldn’t use. This tall beautiful man had history. Her turquoise violation lingered for days in amongst crisp white sheets and reclaimed hardwood floorboards.

I am not beautiful. I know this because a shorter beautiful man with skin woven from chitins grew bored of our planned life together, ending it after a scramble of life decisions already made and briskly undone. Still, this shorter beautiful man continued to play me a bit-part, pulling my knee-strings, indispensable for walking, How those of us who are now ugly clamour for a nod or a touch from those who remain beautiful, refuting the adage that beauty is only skin deep, how can it be when they have everything and we have nothing?

I am not beautiful. I know this because I have a job in a building with a toilet mirror that pitches my lower lip, that punnets my cheeks, that reptants my neck (is that even a word?). Mirrors in shops are liars, we all know that. They groom us and swoon us, shaking us down into frocks we don’t need, careening heels that will murder us on escalators (manslaughter at least). But office mirrors? Are even they in the misogyny game now?

Categories
Flash fiction

Heart Burn

It gives me heartburn, she says. He doesn’t hear. Isn’t supposed to hear. She is speaking to the raw inside of the cupboard door. Crouched in the dark, she’s unhinged unzipped undone. Bare toes in mouse droppings and gunged Baby Bio and up hard against her spine the mop that dips, crestfallen from the missing remains of dear Aunt Hilda.

He locks her in the cupboard after breakfast. Just for an hour or so. After his buttering out to each edge, neat larded nurses’ corners, spooning on her homemade marmalade (made every autumn with Mrs Frank’s copper-bottomed pan). He eats, she watches. She chews, he stands behind her, heavy hands on rearing angular shoulders, dull fingers ready for any crumb.

Janet doesn’t do crumbs. Crumbs come with stockings knotted around her ankles or a sharp open-handed slap across her left ear.

Of course the cupboard was her idea. A provocative pout as she’d eaten her slab of square Spam at his feet. In those days he’d let her use a knife and fork, even her hands. From down there, crouched around the slut of his black boots, trailing laces, socks trenchant in their oily scent, she’d met eyes with the cupboard door under the stairs. The door’s eyes rolled, winked, offered a slipper of pity as the wind buckled through the kitchen, through her thinning fringe, slamming the cupboard door shut, toppling dear Aunt Hilda’s empty scouring bucket, tinkling the sea-glass chimes still hanging above the oyster catcher skull in the hall window.

She mouthed to the cupboard something indistinct, a thank you maybe, her lips a soft shell of surprise, her knees numb from the hunkering. Lock me up, she said to Graham. It’s the least I deserve.

So here she is, Janet S Franklin, squatting fetid, a ball of white Scottish roll stuck tepid half way down her gullet, Graham in the kitchen whistling along to a Bach concerto on Radio 3.

It gives me heartburn, she says. Out loud this time. Emphasising the burn. The heart. Rocking back and forth on the balls of her feet. She doesn’t scream when the soft scuttle tracks over her right toes, doesn’t even flinch. Scooters and scampers are her friends. Even with the acid reflux. Even with the fetid stench of putrid dear Aunt Hilda still hung about her calves.

Dear Aunt Hilda, bless her. He didn’t meant to kill her, Graham says at least three times a week. Janet doesn’t argue. Not over that. You pick your battles with a brother built like a concrete mixer with LOVE HATE tattooed across the sclerotic skin of his knuckles giving the words an odd marine-like italic effect.

It happened so fast, he said, and I was only trying to help. Janet had come in from work, pouring herself a glass of chocolate milk and lighting a cigarette. She was coming at me with a spade, he said, out by the chicken coup. My hands went to defend myself, he said, and I dunno, she just kind of collapsed.

They skirmished over the flowers. Sibling bickering over a spray of mixed lupins or a bunch of Gerbera daisies. They squabbled as he dug the hole behind the greenhouse, shovelling the soft clay soil into a perfect coffin shaped mound. They’d blame me, he said, smearing his LOVE HATE across his brown corduroys, what with my record and all. And anyway, she was nearly seventy. She’d had her life.

Janet leans back in the cupboard under the stairs and rests her head on the damp wall. Feels around in her pocket for the last chunk of buttered Scottish white roll. Pops it into her mouth and rolls the soft bread around her gums until its a soothing gummy glop.

It gives me heart burn, she says.

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