Drink! By Holly Searle

I am not a good drinker. So, I don't drink.

Okay, I may have lied a bit, as I don't mind the odd glass or two of something. Usually, to toast an event with my family on a special occasion, or, on a night out with friends. But as a rule, I hardly touch the stuff.

Really.

I am not a good drunk. And I am not good at being drunk.

Not because I am prone to aggressive behaviour or outburst. I am not that sort of a drunk. I am the sort that just gets all silly and will tell you how great I think you are, and how much I love you.

I am an emotional sort of drunk.

In that state, when I am a bit worst for wear, I find it makes me feel a little bit vulnerable. And, to be honest with you, I just don't like feeling like that.

No, I quite like to be in charge of all of my faculties, especially when I have to rely on the power of my own steam to see me home safely in one unstaggering piece.

Now, if you don't drink that often, when you do, it only takes a small amount of whatever it is you might fancy on any of these given occasions, to make you more than a little merry.

I am not only an emotional drunk it would seem, but I am also an economical one as well.

I once had a group of friends who couldn't quite understand why I didn't drink too excess as they did.

They would drink, as if they had heard that as of the following day, prohibition was being reinstated.

I had no problem with their drinking. But, boy, did they have an issue with me not following in their unsteady footsteps.

They felt very uncomfortable being in the company of someone who wasn't necking the sauce like they were.

On one such occasion, they were in full swing, and filling their boots with whatever they could lay their hands on. I stood there and watched them all larking about, and acting like fools, when one of them approached me and said "You know what your problem is Holly? You need to loosen up a bit and drink more."

I was more than a little offended by this. But then I soon realised, that when you chose not to drink too excess socially, your sobriety can make others feel uncomfortable.

Hmmmmmmmmmmmmm.

I had been to several dos with this particular bunch of people. One I attended, I arrived to find a majority of them slurring their words, while a minority were passed out cold where they sat, with their heads resting on the tables in front of them.

It wasn't a pretty sight and I felt embarrassed by their behaviour.

I didn't mention it, as I felt that it wasn't my place too draw their attention to my discomfort.

I felt it was rude to mention it.

I may have needed to loosen up a bit more, but I had started to find their drunken lifestyle choices dull and more than a little boring.

So, I decided not to see those people any more.

Like my desire not to drink too excess, I felt I made this choice, based upon the fact that it suited my personality better than it suited theirs.

And, do you know what? That suited me just fine.

And then there was the last time that I was drunk....

It was my birthday and I had made arrangements to meet up with a group friends (no not those ones).

I arrived all bright and shiny as a new pin. I had even left my specs at home that night and had popped my contact lenses in for good measure.

When I arrived my friends were insistent that as it was my birthday, they should buy me as many drinks as possible. And they did, and they were doubles.

I was unaware of their generosity for about half an hour, or so, until the room started to spin a bit. So I decided to slow down and sit down.

I found a quiet spot, and sat very still.

But the room's insistence at mimicking a wurlitzer ride at a funfair, refused to abate. And its efforts to spin me right round, baby right round, like a record baby, until I was well and truly dizzy, was beyond repair.

At this point, my daughter (who was an adult, I might add) approached the lonely slumped figure that was her once responsible parent, and suggested it might be a good idea if we got a cab home.

I was in full agreement, and so we left.

Much to her amusement, I was trying to do that thing that you do when you are drunk. I was trying to conduct myself in the manner of a person who wasn't drunk at all, by giving the taxi driver clear and concise directions to our home, and failing with a capital F.

Of course she saw through this straight away, and found it hilarious.

And then there were those involuntary little squeaks that kept vocally emanating from me, every time we drove over a speed bump.

She found those funny too.

Once indoors, I just wanted to lay down in a darkened room and go to sleep, just as I did on every other night of the week. I also needed my nightly glass of water next to my bed, and must have repeated this request more than once to my daughter. For she soon delivered a glass to my bedside table, instructing me that she had done so in the manner of a parent who was growing impatient with the behaviour of their naughty child.

I mumbled my shameful thanks, and bid her goodnight and turned off the light, and laid my sorry head down on the pillow,

For a while, the room span.

It was reckless.

I prayed for sleep and looked forward to the following morning when normality would return.

After a fashion, it arrived and I slept.

The following morning after I woke and had opened my eyes, two thoughts occurred to me in very quick succession; one, my sight had been restored (a miracle!), and two, I realised that in my drunken state, I had left my contact lenses in.

I went to the bathroom in a mild panic, and peeled them off of my eyes.

My eyes felt like they had been rubbed with sandpaper, and my cursed myopia returned.

I sighed, and went back to bed.

And so I learnt from this experience, and from many others just like it, that I had missed the actual point of the evening, simply because I was too drunk to enjoy it.

And so, if you are ever out drinking with me, please, carry on at your own pace.

I am happy enough, taking it slowly and just enjoying the evening.

You needn't worry about me.

I am just fine.

Honest.

Cheers.

Swoonage By Holly Searle

Have you ever fainted?

If you have, you'll know just how horrible it is.

One minute you're fine, and then the next, you start seeing purple flashes in front of your eyes, then your ears start to ring, and then the next thing you know, you are waking up surrounded by people staring at you.

It is one of the most frighteningly and vulnerable things you can experience.

When I was a child, I used to faint on a regular basis. I have no idea why this occurred, but it was just awful, as it prevented me from taking part in activities and events that I was looking forward to immensely.

On one occasion, I was being taken to see Father Christmas at Selfridges in Oxford Street as a pre Christmas treat.

I remember quite clearly having to queue up as prior to seeing himself, we were entertained by Uncle Holly. Well I saw him alright, and then the next thing I remember is being carried by my Dad to the Selfridge's sick room were I stayed until I was considered fit enough to go home.

I never got to see Father Christmas, but I still have my Uncle Holly badge, so at least that is something.

The next clear memory of this ever happening transpired during a family holiday to Cornwall or Devon.

I was queuing up (again) with my family, waiting to be seated in a restaurant, when I began to see those purple flashes.

My Mum turned to my Dad and said "Terry, take her outside, she is going to faint."

To which I responded, in a melodramatic manner "It's too late." before crashing to the floor of the restaurant, in a unceremonious heap.

This undoubtedly became an hilarious incident that my elder brother would mimic relentlessly throughout our formative years.

From then on, I guess being the subject of ridicule, pretty much kicked me into touch, as I began to recognise the early signs, and would take ever opportunity to prevent it from happening in public again.

Personal pride, it would seem for a short period at least, had cured me from these episodes.

However, then came The Bun Factory incident.

As a young adult, I found myself working for a company that decided that some of its employees should visit the bun factory that made and supplied its buns.

How exciting !

So off we all went.

As you can probably imagine, this was an incredibly dull and boring trip, and I can tell you in no uncertain terms, that if this opportunity should ever come your way, pull a sickie and stay at home and do something else instead. Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory was the fantasy kids, the bun factory, on the other hand, was the reality.

There were no Oompa Loompas, but rather a dullard corporation bod explaining how buns were made.

At one point we were all standing there nodding our heads like dogs on the parcel shelf of a car, trying to look interested, when an old familiar feeling started to consume me.

I thought "Oh please, not here." I mentioned to the guy standing next to me that I wasn't feeling too good and asked him if he wouldn't mind if I lent on him for support.

I shifted my feet, and started to panic, and then passed out on the concrete of the factory floor hitting my head in the process.

Great.

The next thing I knew, someone was trying to revive me with some foul smelling substance, that I was later told was industrial ammonia.

Genius.

Safe to say, I was let off the visit to the next factory that was part of our agenda for the remainder of the afternoon.

My head was pretty sore and I am sure I lost a few valuable brain cells that day.

Jump ahead to a photographer's studio on a hot summer's day a few years later.

I am an extra on a shoot that features a small crowd of people. It is some advert for the winter, so we are all wearing thick jumpers.

The photographer has us all in a tableau that he appears to think will work. He decides to take a polaroid to see if we look right on celluloid, before he starts shooting us with real film.

He takes the shot at the same moment that I fell to the floor.

Click. Thud.

My comic timing on that occasion, was perfect.

I was not in the advert, and I didn't get paid.

And if my foray into the world of extra work couldn't get any worse, I later took part in yet another photographic shoot on a roof top in Covent Garden with yet another small crowd of people.

This time it was a job for The Daily Star for a competition they were wanting to promote called Stargazing.

We were all instructed to Stargaze and look up.

I did this along with everyone else for quite a long period of time while the photographer was faffing about.

I held that position for as long as I could and then hit the deck as fast as a comet.

Crash.

Again, I lucked out and wasn't paid and ended up feeling like an idiot.

After that I went to see a doctor whose only advice to me was to carry a Mars bar (I kid you not) in my handbag, and to eat it at the first signs of a fainting episode.

I didn't do this, as the thought of choking on confectionery whilst in the process of loosing consciousness , seemed a little horrific to me.

I am happy to report, that since the Stargazing incident, I haven't passed out again.

I pretty much worked out that most of these fainting episodes are either down to excessive heat, low blood sugar, and the latter, to trapping a nerve in my neck.

Apparently if you look up for an extensive period of time, you can trap a nerve in your neck that causes you to faint.

So, armed with all of this knowledge, I now avoid standing for extended lengths of time in the heat whilst wearing an Aran sweater, make sure I eat something, and I do all my stargazing laying down.

And for now, I am happy to say, it appears to have worked.

Oom Pah Pah By Holly Searle

There's a little ditty
They're singing in the city.............

I have noticed of late, a rather alarming stream of repetitive responses that I am hearing from men, whilst I am engaged in a simple and innocent exchange with them.

And it goes like this.

I will just be being friendly, having a plain and simple conversation with them, and nothing more, I promise you. And all of a sudden, out of the blue, they will say something along the lines of "Yes, I know, my wife/girlfriend/partner likes that too."

I didn't really think anything about it at first, but then, when it happened again, and again, and again, I mentioned it in passing to a female colleague that I work with, (as these exchanges invariably appeared to be happening at there), and she laughed and said she knew just what I was referring to.

But then it happened to me one evening while I was out with some friends. I was just being chatty with a chap who was part of the group, but someone whom I had never met before. I wasn't flirting, I was just being friendly.

When he suddenly did it as well.

So, I began to think, why do all of these men feel the need to verbally signifying their relationship status?

Whilst I may be single, I don't own a badge or a t-shirt that clarifys this. Neither do I have a tattoo on my forehead that blatantly points this out, believe me, I know, as I have checked. I don't carry a butterfly net either, one in which I intend to capture any unwittingly off guard males.

It's a funny one.

I want to say to them, "Look, I realise that you have a wife/girlfriend/partner, as you are far too clean and well kept, to lead me to think otherwise."

I want to explain to them that they are not displaying that Havishamesque air of someone who has not bothered to look after themselves, since they were jilted at the alter.

I want to say, "Look, I was just being friendly, I have not other ulterior motive, other than that."

I think that that, might make them think on. But now, because I have made a mental note of these exchanges, as soon as one crops up, it kills the conversation entirely. And the whole purpose of the innocent friendly non-sexual exchange between two human beings, simply becomes redundant.

However, I have started to think on, and have come to the conclusion that what is actually going on here is the following.

Maybe the man in question, is just a happy well kept chap, who has found his mate. In his brain he has long since lost the thread of the banter that would have once been a necessary part of his primitive discourse, and one that he would have had to relied upon, in order to find a one.

Fair play. I understand that.

Maybe, what these men are really saying is "Look, I have covered this already, and I am finding the fact that I am having a conversation with a rather pleasant woman, that I have no intention of whisking away, a little uncomfortable. It is confusing me, so I am going to have to put a stop to it right now, before my brain overheats, by telling you that I am taken."

I think that is probably it.

I really do.

It is the way, I think, that they find of distraction themselves from what they think is going on, as opposed to what they then translate in their brains, to be the on the spot actuality of what the situation is.

And as I can quite clearly see what they are doing, it all just puts me in mind of that rather lovely sequence in the musical version of Oliver where Nancy sings that rather wonderful song Oom Pah Pah.

She starts this tantalising tavern sing-along in order to create a diversion, so that she can get Oliver out of the place, to prevent Bill from involving him in a preplanned nefarious activity.

But, despite all of her table boarding, skirt shaking, cartwheel spinning attempts, Bill sees exactly what she is up to.

Well, I guess I am Bill.

Men, I appreciate your good fortune, I really do. But please, I implore you, just go with the flow with what is really happening, and not what you feel your repressed primitive nature is telling you it thinks is happening.

For if you do not, innocent friendly women everywhere, might just start shouting an unpreventable tourettic "Bullseye!" in an Oliver Reed Voice, every time you mention you have a wife/girlfriend/or partner.

They all suppose what they want to suppose
When they hear...oom-pah-pah!!

Men, you have been warned.

Pretty Vacant By Holly Searle

In 1977, I became a teenager.

I was a pretty shy and retiring one at that. I was painfully self-conscious about all the changes that were taking place to my body and the transition between being a child and those years crossing the bridge, on my way to becoming an adult, were scary with no clear signposting to assist me on my journey.

This year, my son will hit the same marker in his life.

This got me to thinking about how different the culture he abides in is, and how much more demanding and unrelenting it appears to be in relation to the one that my rite of passage into adulthood evolved within.

It almost seems as if the culture we all live in now, combines an unapologetic helping of trash with a dollop of sophisticated technology, but, that it is devoid of the milk of human kindness. One that might offer a much needed cuddle every now and then, to those whom may find it all a little stressful to deal with and adhere too.

I feel both impressed with his good fortune to be a child of modernity, whilst incredibly sadden, that there appears to be something missing, something lost. An innocence and a creativity, that would be more suited to his personality, but one that he will somehow never know ever existed in the same way it did for me.

When I was a child, I was very much one. I spent my days, riding my bike, hanging out with my friends, still playing with my dolls (and was quite ashamed of doing so), listening and taping the top twenty off of the radio on a Sunday evening, and watching one of only three television channels.

I invented things and used my initiative to occupy my mind. It wasn't a necessity, it was a pleasure.

Times were simple, but then again, they were far more advanced than they had been for my parent's generation, or for my grandparent's before them.

Seems odd to think about that now, in these racy modern times that we live in.

We didn't have labels that made us who we were, we crafted who we were out of what we had. We created ourselves, and we weren't invented by the shallow ideals of ad men, whose didactic boardroom concepts, would soon start to dominate our identity of who they thought we should be, and of whom they thought we should be like.

I had grown up on a diet of a weekly subscription to The Bunty, Marvel and Whizzer and Chips comics. A cocktail of girly garb, mixed with a healthy dash of fantasy, combined with a smidgen of cheeky comic humour.

Pop stars were older than they are now. It was a rarity to see some singing poppet reach the top of the charts and claim an army of followers the way they do today. If they did, they were usually the product of Opportunity Knocks or New Faces, that soon faded into obscurity, rather than checking in to The Priory or The Betty Ford Clinic to purge themselves of some addiction that was brought about by their life in the spotlight.

My only sin of idolatry for these pop stars, were the one or two posters that I may have discovered within the pages of the odd copy of Jackie that I bought.

I soon discovered that I was not a magazine type of girl, and ditch them as an option for things that I felt worthy of spending my pocket money on.

Then in the summer of 1977, The Sex Pistols delivered punk into our lives and we all boarded a bus to an alternative destination that shook the very foundation of society.

They weren't the by product of a Hughie Green hosted show, but rather a backlash against the prime time produced popularity and the safe choices of his viewers.

I was terrified of their anger, but refreshed by it, as they heralded a new wave of music, bands and performers that were real, by the same token that Bob Dylan must have been for my parents.

Out of that culture of new wave music came the affirmation of individualism, and that was so good and inspirational. And freed us from mediocrity and underlined our lone creativity of ourselves, by ourselves.

But something has happened to all that, and this is one of the issues I worry about for all of those that will turn 13 this year.

Mediocrity it appears is king.

And I frown and scratch my head in wonder and dismay of how this could possibly have happened given the popular cultural gems that we have produced, but that have sadly been drown in a shallow puddle of the celebrity and reality culture that has taken over our society today.

And it is everywhere, like a mind altering virus without a cure.

The shallow unashamed and marketed to the hilt, label wearing, surgically enhanced, entourage accompanied soulless pack of beings, that have replaced the necessity of the mother of inventiveness that my generation proudly produced.

Kids today are identified by what they have, and sadly, not because of who they choose to be.

They are consumed by and idolise those that live in an unattainable reality to theirs. They are encouraged to objectify these idols of trash via weekly reality television shows, and then given the option to ridicule them via the covers of magazines.

It is truly horrible and ironically pretty vacant on so many levels of comprehension that it makes me want to weep.

I don't believe illusions
'cos too much is real
So stop your cheap comment
'cos we know what we feel

I'll definitely be giving my son a Clash album and an introduction to The Sex Pistols this year, as well as explaining that the only Kardashians he need ever know about, are the ones that feature in episodes of Star Trek.

The Evil That Men Do By Holly Searle

Let's face it, it's a given isn't it, that we live, and probably always will do, in a society, and sadly a world, that is, and always will be, dominated by a patriarchal ideology.

Whilst I do not accept this, I have at times, had no choice in the matter, other than to admit, that it is probably true, and despite the attempted changes, the accepted norm that we all adhere too.

And whilst, I would not consider myself to be a feminist, as I dislike monikers that group individuals and mark them, with all due respect, as belonging to a single minded collective consciousness. I would have to admit, that I find that I am one by default, simply due to the fact that I was born a woman.

And as such, there is no escaping the fact, that as a woman, I am one, that lives and functions in this ideology as best I can, regardless of the man made walls and attitudes that I have encountered and have come in to contact with all throughout my life.

Having said that, I used to feel a bit sorry for all the men that grew up in a post feminist ideology, as I felt that it had messed with what their concept of what their generic social role model was, and who they were meant to be and how they were meant to behaviour. Especially as I will admit that I quite like a man who will adopt an air of masculine social etiquette and as such, will still open a door for you, or give up his seat.

However, I am of the opinion that now more than ever, that as these generic lines have became so blurred, that they are now lost forever in a torrid sea of Hemingway angst. And I realise that all of factors that have contributed to and have influenced modern man's social behaviour, the one that is most to blame is in all probability derived from, and due to his bringing.

Of course it is, I hear you all scream.

It's that old nature versus nurture chestnut, isn't it?

But is it?

And one of the aspects about man's behaviour that intrigues me more than any other, is his capacity to be evil, and to be able to consistency carry out such horrific crimes that demonstrate the heart of this very nature, or nurture. Whilst women on the other hand, do not seem to be that way inclined, or as affected. And regardless of her social limitations, she appears to have held fast and remained steadfast in her role, without exhibiting the same nasty traits.

It is an unacceptable pattern of behaviour that I find most unforgiving.

Everyday it seems, we had bombarded with stories, news reports, footage and images of pure unremitting acts of evil by men.

Why is that I wonder?

Why are men capable of being evil, when women are not?

Personally I think this all may have started with the oldest tale that was ever told, the story of creation.

In the Bible (which I hold no allegiance with, or belief in), it is Adam who is created first in his maker's image. Then old Eve is fashioned as a by product out of one of his ribs, as an afterthought, to keep him company.

Charming.

So there they both were naked with no conscious thoughts between them in the Garden of Eden, when a snake arrives and happens to mention that there is a tree with quite nice fruit on it.

Eve tells the snake that they aren't allowed to eat from this tree, but the snake plants the notion in her mind that he thought that they were allowed to eat whatever they wanted, Adam then duly helps himself.

Before you know it, they realise they are naked, cover themselves up, and are in big trouble with their creator.

This is what is more commonly know as Original Sin and man's rebellion against his maker's house rules, which in turn lead to all of humanity being cursed thereafter because of his actions.

One apple from the Tree of Life, and they were banished to the wilderness forever, where they produced two sons; Cain and then Abel. Cain kills his brother and became the first human ever born to commit murder and the very first act of evil.

Although this is an apocryphal story, it is one that has established an inherent genealogy of an immoral code of practice and wicked deeds attributed to men and not women.

And I wonder if this creationist take on mankind’s evolution, was responsible for some sort of inbred social stain, as throughout history, and well on into modernity, we have witnessed many evil acts, a majority of which have been propagated by men.

Then again, if that doesn't answer the question as to why men are more capable of committing evil acts, maybe the new train of thought with regards to trying to determine the existence of an evil gene is.

Is that possible?

Some geneticists believe that it is, and that there may be a mutation or abnormality in some men, that may explain why they are more predisposed to aggressive behaviour than others.

And if there was a test that could determine it's existence what next? Will we all be tested pre birth and tattooed with a barcode to prevent further evil acts being committed?

Of course, not all men are evil, but it is a given that the most heinous acts are or have been monopolised by men who are evil.

Ask yourself this question. How many women have been responsible for acts of pure unremitting evil?

A handful, that is how many.

Now ask yourself how many men there have been?

Makes you think doesn't it?

All I know is this.

The difference between men and women, is that although women have the capacity to be spiteful, it appears, and is accepted, that men are the gender most capable and predisposed to commit acts of evil.

And I doubt that this will ever change. And I have no idea why that is or how or if that will ever change.

And although as a woman, I may have been affected in my life due to my gender, I am glad that I am not a man.

For the evil that men do, makes women weep with both deep sadness, and joy.

And probably always will.

Bring your sons up well, and teach them all to be better men.

Circus By Holly Searle

I do love a circus.

Over the years, both before and after having children, I have always made an effort to see as wide a variety of them as I possibly can.

Although, having said that, I have never been to one of those Albert Hall hyper stylish one, as they aren't what I consider to be a truly proper circus.

No, I like those old fashioned ones, with sawdust on the floor and a slightly debauched David Lynch Blue Velvet air too them.

In all probability, this stems from the fact that I saw The Greatest Show on Earth when I was a kid, and I was so intrigued by the character of the mysterious clown called Buttons played by James Stewart, that I was hooked. Buttons the clown never removes his make-up, not even in between shows. Who is he, and what is he trying to hide by concealing his true identity from the rest of the troupe?

And why has he left Bedford Falls and what has he done with Harvey?

Turns out that Buttons the clown is hiding something. Yes folks, he certainly is. He hasn't just run away with the circus because he likes to make people laugh or because he has run out of make-up removing cream. No, the truth is that he simply has a past that is cleverly concealed by a think layer of pancake and a red nose.

Personally I disagree with people who spoil the plots and story lines of films, so I am not going to ruin the movie by telling you what it is, or indeed, what is
was.

Ahhhhhhhh.

Nope, you'll just have to find out for yourself.

And maybe Buttons' duplicitous behaviour is much more to blame for an inherent fear of clowns, than Stephen King is. Or maybe, it was those nasty evil drunk clowns in Dumbo. My money's on the latter. Disney was evil, full stop, and so were those clowns. You would have to be a nasty piece of work, to slip an abandoned minor a Mickey Finn just for your own amusement.

But the fact that there were seemingly real personalities behind all of the make-up and glitter, with real stories, housed within the spectacle of the circus façade simply intrigued me. The circus had it all going on, and had it all going down, or so it would seem.

To the onlooker a circus may appear to be all sparkle with illusions created to enthral and excite its audience, and nothing more. But what The Greatest show on Earth revealed, was the concept that behind all of the smoke and mirrors, lurked an array of dark socially fragmented characters.

So thanks to Cecil B. DeMille's masterpiece, I was smitten.

And there is of course more to the film than the question of who or what Buttons the clown is hiding. It also features an array of interwoven stories between all of the circus folk and is a succulent feast of brightly coloured costumes, tricks, tears, love, betrayal and of course their public performances.

And as well as staring the incomparable James Stewart, it also features in inimitable Gloria Grahame.

Around about the same time, I also saw Trapeze, another circus based movie that features Tony Yondah lies da castle of my foddah Curtis as part of a trapeze act set on defeating the odds by completing a triple somersault, way up high in the air on the trapeze, at all costs without the aid of a net to catch them if they should fall.

I sat on the edge of my seat holding my breath, as the scene approached in which they attempted this death defying act.

It was quite thrilling to watch.

The tangle of bare torsos, sequins and spandex all just added to the tension.

But once again, no, I am not telling.

And so it was, thereafter, forever and beyond, after having seen these filmatic portrayals of all the dramas afoot in the circus and between their folk, that my love for it, was well and truly embedded in my psyche forever.

In real life, I was fortunate one late summer's evening in the mid eighties to have witnessed, the raw spectacle of the French circus Archaos in the open air on Clapham Common.

Their take on what circus should be, had more in common with Mad Max than DeMilles's The Greatest Show on Earth, as it consisted of performers on motorbikes driving through rings of fire, a highly misappropriated use of chainsaws, and a fearsome butcher with a meat clever, whose behaviour even Sweeney Todd would have found shocking.

It was just breathtakingly incredible to watch and I have never seen anything like it since.

I watched it with my eyes as wide as saucers in childlike disbelief. It was like circus crack to me, and I wanted to explore more aspects of this genre.

Thereafter however, I downscaled some and attended a more traditional circus in a tent, in a field in Ireland. In comparison to the Archaos performance, it was the complete polar opposite, but nevertheless, it was full of charm and retained all of the composites one would expect to see; A ringmaster, clowns, acrobats and a smidging of animal participation in the form of horses.

Back in London and during some lean financial times whilst in my second year at university, I was working two jobs in between lectures so that Child One and I had enough to live on, when I saw that the circus was coming to town.

I saved some money and bought two tickets.

On the night in question we sat entranced ringside while the circus weaved its magic. It was just extraordinary to watch and a blessed few hours of much need escapism for us both.

Afterwards we were both high on post circus bliss as we sat by the river eating our burger and chips chatting, when Child One pipes up “That was the best night of my life. Than you Mum.”

Many years later, I invested the same for Child Two and he loved it just as much.

As I grow older, I find I am just incredibly fond of the circus and all of its attributes. I am still intrigued by the performers and what motivated them to join the circus, and, just like Buttons, as I watch them perform, I wonder if they are harbouring a secret or two.

I hope that they are.

And the circus is just like a family, with the Ringmaster as the soul overriding parent, while the Acrobats are the well behavioured children, whilst the Clowns are not.

And just like real life, the circus features ordinary people performing extraordinary acts.

And that's way I love the circus so much.

Pet Sounds By Holly Searle

I miss my cat Jones.

He was the most majestic and glorious of creatures, that came to live with us for seventeen years, until he became quite poorly and sadly left.

He was one of a pair, as initially we were lucky enough to be able to home him and his sister Reece

But she, unfortunately met with a dreadful untimely end, and as such, I always felt so guilty about having taken her as well.

And here is why.

On the day that Child One and I went to visit our friend's house to decide which one of the litter we would like, Jones, chose me. He made a bee line for my lap and that was it. We were engaged from that moment on, and later married.

She, on the other hand, did not chose me. She was a timid little thing right from the start, and in retrospect, I should really have let her make her own choice as too whom she wanted to spend her life with, instead of rather greedily taking her home with us as well.

She was an exquisite silver tabby, and just like him, she had the Mark of Mohamed above her eyes.

For as long as I can remember we always had a cat or two that made up the make-up of my family.

Our Islington cats were Cromwell and Midgy, followed thereafter by Jiggle Bells whom lived with us in Holloway Road.

In Fulham our cat in residence was Sam. He used to come on holiday with us and he later moved with us to Chiswick. And then we had so many various cats, that at one point we had nine.

Emma was a tortoiseshell, with a purr as loud as a black taxi. Arthur was a ginger and white cat and one of Emma's kittens who had been born on my bed, who often thought I was his mother. Charlie Parker, also one of Emma's kittens, was a charming black and white cat who was very, very chatty. Alas, he never played a saxophone, but nevertheless was too cool for school. And then there was Fluff, a high maintenance grey cat, who was a picky eater. They were the last of the Mohican cats, in an end of days of my family's historical feline frenzy.

When I left home however, I promptly carried on this tradition by finding a ginger cat called Clarence. He was a bit snooty to be honest, and we didn't get on so well.

But then, much much later, after Child One was born, and whilst we were of no fixed abode, we couldn't even entertain the idea of having a cat. It was a feline famine of the worst kind.

Once we had finally put down some roots, and had room to house a couple of moggies, we did just that, and that was when we when Jones and Reece arrived.

Jones was the most beautiful ginger marmalade tabby. Fact.

He was a big ball of ginger sunshine. Fact.

And, he was his own cat, and you couldn't argue with either him or that. If he didn't want to do something, he wouldn't, and that was all. No room for discussion or debate on the matter.

He lived his life as and how he wanted too.

He had his own agenda, and timetable and could always be found positioned on the other pillow next to mine, on my bed in the early morning, trying wake me up with a gentle tap of his paw on my cheek, followed by a mipping sound.

He could be most insistent. And if I didn't get up to feed him straight away, he would simply apply more strength to his action, and the occasionally claw or two if I failed to respond.

And on days when I wasn't feeling well, and would take to my bed, he would always follow me up the stairs and climb into bed with me and curl up into a comforting little ball next to me.

He adored Child One, and allowed her to get away with all sorts of mischief at his expense. One morning she declared that she had cut his whiskers off. To be fair it was more of a trim, but he had sat there in his trusting way, and had allowed her to do it.

Once I had got over the horror of my child having found the scissors and her attempt to give him a short, back and sides.

I explain to her that without his whiskers, and until they grew back, he would be unable to gage his ability to access gaps and spaces, as they dictated his height and width.

Safe to say, she learnt a lesson that day, as did he. Eventually his whiskers grew back and he survived the ordeal with great aplomb, and I, of course hid the scissors in a safer place.

When he felt like it, he did a few tricks as well. You could throw a ball of paper for him, and he would fetch it and bring it back to you. This was a good game, until he grew tired of its repetition, and would simple stop and stare at you as if to say "I am bored with this now, so I am not playing any more."

Fair enough.

When Child Two was born, he was very upset and demonstrated this by leaving a suitable gift in his Moses basket one evening.

His nose was well and truly out of joint, as he felt that his ranking within the family had changed.

He used to come and sit on the edge of the bath with me while I was bathing to keep me company. I made sure we had a few extra us moments like these, and he seemed to default to his factory settings and re-established in his own mind, his rightful place.

He liked to lay in pools of sunlight and snooze for a hour or two.

And he loved a cuddle.

But his greatest love was to chase a feather or two.

He liked that very much.

I would often catch him vocalisation a warning Rahhing sound to the birds as they attempted to land on the balcony of our little home. And just like in one of those Warner Brother's cartoon, there would often been a pile of discarded feathers floating above his head when I went to see what he was up to.

On catching him in this post terrorist mode, he would just look very guiltily in my direction, and then smile at me and blink his eyes to placate my angry tone.

It always work.

It is seven years since he died.

It was the most God awful decision I have ever had to make, calling that. I am not God, but he wasn't well, and the choices were nil.

I can't recall crying as much about anything else in my entire life with such fervent emotion as I did that day.

It was just horrible.

After he was gone, I could still feel his paws on my lap, and I could hear his footsteps padding around the place when the house was still.

I miss him dreadfully.

I haven't replaced him, because I can't.

But one day, when I am ready, and when I have a garden, another cat will come to stay.

Climb Every Mountain By Holly Searle

For my brother Tim, the big know all.

My very talented writer friend Christopher Karallis.

For Jemma Evans an all round lovely person.





I haven't been able to write a blinking thing of late.

I have no idea why.

I have simply had no ideas.

Usually, I get my ideas or inspiration for pieces from everything and anything. They may derive from a minor exchange during a conversation, or from something I have seen or read. Or, the seed may be sown as the result of a social event or interaction that I have taken part in.

Now, I have been doing all of those things, but nothing, nothing, would evolve in my mind. There was no spark, no interesting head scratching frown germ of an idea. There was instead, just a great big listless excruciatingly painful dull void.

After a while, I started to panic. I started to think oh dear, I have lost my thread of ingenuity. Has that muse, the one that has kept me company simply got bored with all of the endless cold and snow, now left me and decided to hibernate? Has it frozen solid, lost forever and unable to return?

Maybe, I had begun to think like Peggy Lee, is that all there is? And that there simply isn't any more?

And then it got worse and I just felt devoid of everything. EVERYTHING.

I'll be honest with you, it wasn't a particularly nice feeling, feeling like that.

To put it into context, it is a bit like going to the supermarket and wistfully happily going about your business and filling your trolley with all of those items that you have run out of at home. Feeling all warm and safe in the knowledge, that as you head towards the checkout, you will soon be home and that all of your cupboards will once again be full, only to discover, as the cashier tells you the total, that you have left your purse at home.

Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!!!!!!!!

By the time you realise this, you have packed all of your shopping away in the bags that you have brought with, in that organised fashion that you do (fresh food in this one, cold and frozen foods in that one).

Sweat starts to break out on your brow. You search your bag again again, and again, in the hope that you didn't search it thoroughly enough the previous ten times.

But, alas, it is true. Your purse isn't there and you are going to have to confess this to not only the check out person, but also to yourself.

You bow your head in shame and drag your feet as you exit the supermarket in search of the rest of the disenfranchised who have abandoned all hope.

What a looser.

You ride home on the bus. You pass a tattoo parlour. You think to yourself I don't have a tattoo, but if I did, it would be that L shape that people make with their hand whilst holding it to their forehead and mouthing the word Looser at you.

You return home. It is cold. Your cupboards are empty, and so is your mind and your heart.

You try to read. But all the books that you start, you find no enjoyment in at all. They offer none of the much needed escapism that you need. Their words mock your own inability to write anything yourself.

As you read, you think, I could have written this. Then your inner daemon places its hand on its forehead and mouths Looser.

You stoically agree and close the book and toss it on the floor by the side of your bed. It joins several other books as it lands with a muffled thud.

You think like Scarlet O’Hara and tell yourself that tomorrow is another day. But the next day and the day after that, and the day after that, the void just continues to expand at an alarming rate.

You loose your sense of humour.

Your writer friend tells you not to worry and to stop thinking about it so much.

But the void follows you everywhere that you go. It is like an additional shadow, you can't shake it.

You think to yourself, if I can't write, I am fecked. Who am I without writing something, anything? You concluded your worse fears that without writing you are nothing.

I am nobody.

I am a looser.

You have a backlog of ideas for a series of Children's books. It is what you fondly refer to as your own personal till roll of creativity.

You sit down to review what you have written so far, but nothing will come, there is no flow of ideas.

You are blocked.

There is just a great big solid brick wall in front of you, on which someone has spray painted the word Looser.

Then, just when you think it cannot possibly get any worse, something happens.

Your brother suggests that you write about not being able to write.

You mull this over in your head as it hits your pillow.

And then a germ of an idea starts to form.

You think about the void and then you think about Joe Simpson's story Touching The Void.

Tick, tick, tick goes your mind.

And then the rusty cogs finally start to turn.


If you haven't read the book Touching The Void, or seen the movie based upon the book, I would urge you too do so.

It is the most incredible story about two men called Joe Simpson and Simon Yates, who decided to climb a mountain called Siula Grande in a remote area of Peru in 1985.

Their ascent, although marred by bad weather and freakish snowfall, was successful.

However, during their descent, things started to go wrong when Joe brakes his leg.

In the middle of nowhere, thousands of feet up a mountain, they were, for all intent and purposes, buggered.

But then Simon came up with a workable plan of action as to how to get Joe down from the mountain.

He would simply lower Joe down with a climbing rope 150 feet at a time, until they finally reach a safe place, from where help will be easier to access.

However, as he was lowering Joe, Simon is unaware that Joe had slipped over a ridge and is hanging in the air, at the end of the rope with a massive drop below.

Simon waited for Joe to give him the agreed signal, but when it never came, he had to make a decision; to precariously proceed down the mountain at his own detriment to discover Joe's location, or to cut the rope and save himself.

He cuts the rope and saves himself.

Joe, on the other hand, fell and landed in a deep crevasse far below.

Simon makes it down the mountain, but with the albatross of knowledge hanging around his shoulders, that Joe is probably dead.

But Joe wasn't dead and had miraculously survived the fall. He then managed to get himself out of the crevasse, and to make his own way back to base camp with a hideous bone shattering leg injury.

It is quite an incredible feat.

If Simon hadn't cut that rope, in all probability, they both would have died, or maybe not. We will have to agree to agree that we shall never know the answer to that alternative sliding doors interpretation, as it wasn't the one that was written.

But, the one we know and are familiar with is.

And so, I thought about Joe Simpson and Simon Yates, as I closed my eyes, with my head resting there on my pillow.

And I thought about that mountain.

And I thought about that void.

And I thought about how mad they were to even attempt such a crazy insecure venture as that.

What were they thinking?

Shall I tell you?

They looked at something that most folk would consider as impossible thing to do. They considered their options, they made their plans, they packed all of the necessary equipment that they needed, and they wore all the right clothes.

But even though they took all of these precautions, things that they had no control over, like the weather and that darn snow, effected the outcome of their adventure.

But what an adventure they had, and what a story that had to tell because of it.

Well, do you know what?

Writing is a lot like that.

And I have just climbed a new mountain by delivering this piece.

My flag has been well and truly planted on it's summit.

And that, my friends, is good enough for me.


Climb every mountain,
Search high and low,
Follow every highway,
Every path you know.

Something Changed By Holly Searle

Do you believe in love?

I do.

I believe in love and romance, and the notion that there is someone for everyone in this crazy world that we all live in.

And for me, one of the most beautiful songs to envisage this notion is Pulp's Something Changed written in part by Jarvis he of the same birthday as me Cocker.

I wrote the song two hours before we met.
I didn't know your name or what you looked like yet.
Oh I could have stayed at home and gone to bed.
I could have gone to see a film instead.
You might have changed your mind and seen your friends.
Life could have been very different but then,
Something changed.

Do you believe that there's someone up above?
Does he have a timetable directing acts of love?
Why did I write this song on that one day?
Why did you touch my hand and softly say.
Stop asking questions that don't matter anyway.
Just give us a kiss to celebrate here today.
Something changed.

When we woke up that morning we had no way of knowing,
That in a matter of hours we'd change the way we were going.
Where would I be now if we'd never met?
Would I be singing this song to someone else instead?
I dunno but like you said
Something changed.

The fuel of this song's sentiment, has kept me going.

With the tenacity of The Terminator, as the years have passed by at an alarming rate of knots, I have never given up on the randomness of finding love.

And oh boy, how time has flown.

One minute, you appear to be quite nonchalant about its arrival.

But then, one day, in the blink of an eye, an incredible amount of time appears to have passed by.

What?

And it is then that you start checking your watch, and audibly sighing and anxiously tapping your foot.

You start to worry that love's cutting its eventual arrival a bit damn fine and close to the edge for your liking.

And then you enter your Judy Garland period and catch yourself humming The Man that Got Away and a majority of The Carpenters back catalogue, as you lament past loves that you have known throughout your life, worrying endlessly that one of them was it.

And then one day, after far too many Rainy Days And Mondays, you just decide that it's time to move on.

You realise what a wonderful, funny, attractive person you are and you just stop worrying about it all.

You catch yourself looking back at yourself from the bathroom mirror, and you decide that the years haven't been that unkind, and that given the option, you would probably chat yourself up.

This makes you happy, and you smile.

It's a nice smile.

You store away all of the those sad torch songs and opt for the more upbeat positive ones.

You spend a lot of time with your friends. You make time for them as you enjoy their company.

You love laughing and love to hear a funny story.

Life, you decide is quite funny and a pleasure, and that nothing is fixed, or should be expected.

Some days, you like the fact that you can do whatever you please.

But then, you realise what it is that you do miss.

Sometimes when you have been shopping, you return home and get annoyed with yourself because you have forgotten to pick up a certain item.

This realisation is a bit like that.

You come to realise that it isn't so much the love that you miss, but the actual loving.

You also decide that the intimacy that is afforded on a regular basis to those who have another soul with which to share their lives with, is what you are actually are missing most of all.

And yes, while it is highly probably, that in the right situation, you may encounter the opportunity in which to make this intimacy a reality, you know full well, that this isn't what you want.

What you want is it all.

The romance, the courting, the proposal, the wedding, the life that follows on and all the love that holds your hand in its.

Yes, that is what I have finally realised.

Something changed and it was me, and those are my terms.

Thanks Jarvis.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uvpEOFy8oQg

That Was The Week (Or Two) That Was By Holly Searle

I have come to the conclusion that life is just like the weather we have been enduring of late.

Shockingly changeable and not surprisingly unreliable for the time of year.

I am also of the opinion, that at some point in our evolutionary time frame, we all ate and ate and ate until we were fit to burst over Winter to enable us to hibernate in our caves, until such a time that the weather turned, and we emerged and were greeted by a warm peck on the cheek by the sun.

And I bet, as I write this, that there is a scientist asleep on a sofa somewhere, who has that data hidden in a draw. And the reason that it hasn't been published, is simply because, it is just too damn cold to go to the post office.

Mark my words, I bet that this is true.

And if you listen hard enough, you can hear the scientist snoring.


Less than two weeks ago, I attended the funeral of a friend. I was truly shocked by her passing. It is rare for me to cry instantly, but on hearing this sad news, I did.

It was just too awful.

One minute, she was here, and then the next, just like that, she was gone, and her life had ended.

On the day of her funeral, it was the most glorious day.

The sun had finally come out and shinning brightly in a crystal clear blue sky.

It was a perfect early Spring morning.

As I made my way to her house, I smiled as I knew how delighted she would be with such a morning.

Her house was full to the brim with people of all ages.

Funerals are always awkward affairs at the best of times.

What do you say to the family that is left behind in her wake?

You cannot remove the pain that they are going through, and you don't want to appear too intrusive.

Their grief was heartbreaking.

I am blessed inasmuch as I have only attended five other funerals; My Nan's, that of a friend's child, the dearest elderly gentleman I have known, an old school friend and a neighbour.

They were all equally full of an unequivocal painful sadness.

But even though this funeral was just as sad as all of the others, I realised that it was full of love for this majestic woman.

In her absence, in that vast void that she had left, were those that she had loved so very much, and it showed.

On arriving at the crematorium, we all made our way into the church.

Once we were all seated, the lady vicar (my friend would have liked that), asked us all to stand as the coffin was brought in, accompanied by the Gerry and The Pacemakers' song Don't Let the Sun Catch You Crying.

I hadn't at that point.

However, the love that her family had for her was most notable in the speech that the vicar gave on their behalf.

She covered it all. Her life and the importance of it and the continuation of further life because of it.

The vicar talked about her love for her sons and the love that her husband had had for her.

And when the vicar quoted him as having said that she was the light of my life, I lost it completely, and I am afraid that the sun did see me crying.

And once I had started, I couldn't stop.

It was just such a lovely service full of knowing and love for such a wonderful human being.

She wasn't perfect, but who amongst us all really is and what is perfection anyway?

To all of those people she had touch with her good nature, smile, and good solid advice throughout her life, and to all of those sitting in that church on a bright sunny early Spring morning in March, she was.

The world turns, and life moves on.

It's a bit like a giant colouring book isn't it, life?

There is always a bit that you need to fill in. Or a bit that you have overlooked, or indeed could have coloured in a bit better.

I have lots of lovely vibrant colours in mine, but as I examine it closely, I can see some bits that need addressing and some bits that need revising.

One of these was to track down a dear friend, that I haven't seen for years.

Some people you know in your life are just easy to love aren't they?

When they aren't around, every now and then, you wonder about them and what and where they are.

Well, I had decided that it was about time that I found him and I did.

A card sent to an address, and then a text, followed by a call, and then a meeting.

My world and my colouring book are looking brighter due to this effort.

And that is all it takes, a little effort for those we love and share a history with.

And then I had a date.

When a member of your close family suggests that you should try meeting a man via a dating website that they have discovered called You're Not Dead Yet.

You shake your head and then thank them politely for bringing this to your attention, and then you start making arrangements of your own.

And I had.

And that is how I had a date.

It was a fine date in a fine place, even if the weather wasn't kind.

The man was lovely and we got on well, and, well you know, I wasn't dead yet.

A few days later, we made an arrangement for a second date.

In the meantime I had seen my old friend and it woken up something in me, the feeling that familiarity is the key to what love is really all about.

On the second date, with my date, things didn't go so well.

The man arrived with a bee in his bonnet that he couldn't quite placate.

He wasn't happy and didn't appear to be able to enjoy just being.

In the end, the stain of it spread and the cloth was ruined.

An afternoon of angst.

And as I made my way home and back to those I loved, I knew it was for the best.

All that I had encountered in the previous week, or two, had just reminded me of what I already had, what I was seeking, and what I wasn't.

Life can be as changeable as the weather, but some things remain fixed forever.

So, when the sun finally comes out, don't let it catch you crying.

The Cloverfield Effect By Holly Searle

I'll be honest with you, something has really been playing on my mind recently, and I can't help but think, that it is going to get worse.

Although I have adopted a more positive mindset in the last few years, I feel as though there are changes taking place that may see more worrying times ahead for us all.

No, I haven't gone bonkers, I am just worried about the state of humanity in general and the consequences of the recession and the affects that the welfare changes may bring.

I was thinking back to the riots. Remember those? How can we all forget that they ever took place and the detrimental affect that they had on all of us.

It was pretty scary stuff.

I was sat at home on that night on my own crying, because I couldn't believe what was actually going on a few miles from my own home. A place, like Dorothy, I have always felt safe and secure in.

I wasn't crying because I was scared. I was crying because I was shocked at how quickly it gathered momentum and span all that we knew, and relied upon and recognised, out of control so quickly.

It kind of reminded me of that film Cloverfield.

In that movie, the monster is an ubiquitous force that decimates the city it attacks during the course of a single night

Initially, the monster isn't the main focus of the film, but its actions are. It is only later that we get to see the monster, and even then, the narrative, becomes more about the devastation of the norm and how to try and deal with it, rather than concentrating its attention on the recognised let's kill the monster and save the city plot line.

I found it a really odd and unsatisfactory film to watch from that perspective, but now, something about its narrative structure has started to resonate with me especially in post riot London.

I have a theory that if you believe that your life is less fulfilled because you aren't able to furnish it with items that you are continuing being sold and told will make your life more complete: then you are more likely to be of the opinion, that you are socially inept.

If you are made to feel like that, you will no doubt harvest feelings of frustration and failure.

To feel like that, is a social status bête noir of the worse kind for those who need to be objectified by such trinkets.

The reaction to which, is, or could be, yet another ironic social backlash of biting the hand that unashamedly fed the desire that fuelled it in the first place.

Thus resulting in more social disharmony and quite possibly, I am sad to say, more rioting.

And that is what has been worrying me.

Times are pretty hard. For some, they are almost Dickensian.

And then there are those that the masses have placed their trust in, who have demonstrated their power in an almost abstract expressionist style not that dissimilar to the one attributed to Jackson Pollock in his dripping, pouring, and spattering of paint on a canvas.

It has all been a bit all over the place if you ask me, and a bit messy to look at.

When I think about the riots now, I realise that although it was a herd of humanity that ravished the localities and communities in which it lived, in actuality it was the unseen Cloverfield monster that drove them to do it in the first place.

It isn't an excuse for their behaviour, but it is the truth as I see it.

And it all just reminds me of James Baldwin’s extensive essay The Fire Next Time, which he wrote as a warning as to what the social implications might be, should the civil rights movement not be taken seriously.

Cloverfield ends on a nihilistic note when the military destroy what the monster hasn't, by bombing what remains of the civilised metropolis in order to remove its presence forever.

But then the camcord on which the entire episodic narrative has been recorded, starts to play a previously recorded happier event in the lives of those that have been lost.

So before the monster arrives, maybe there is a chance if we all realise what is important, and what isn't.

Waiting For Walt By Holly Searle

Ruby sat down in front of the dressing table mirror with a petulant thud.

She had woken up alone.

She wriggled about a bit until she made herself more comfortable and then studied the image that reflected itself back at her from the mirror.

She didn't look happy.

She wasn't best please with Walt, and it showed.

She let out a long sigh and pulled that mean face that Walt said he found unsettling. Closed her eyes in a theatrical diva fashion, and then got up and headed for the stairs.

She made her way half way down the stairs, before plonking herself on one of the steps in an unceremonious stroppy fashion.

Her mood was so well executed, that it is was a shame that there was no audience to witness it.

The carpet felt rough beneath her bottom, but she was far too cross to let it bother her.

In fact, its discomfort was yet another unnecessary evil and thoughtless predilection that she would blame Walt for, when he finally got home.

She made a mental note to do so.

Boy, was he in for it.

From her vantage point on the stairs, she was able to stare unblinking at the front door.

If he arrived home in the next few minutes, she thought with glee, he would find her sitting there in a trace like state, whilst staring menacingly at the front door.

The front door that he had double locked on his way out late last night.

He wouldn't expect to find her sat there like that, waiting for him and ready to confront him about his whereabouts.

If looks could kill, Ruby thought, he would be done for within seconds of opening it.

Ha!

She could just see his expression. How surprised he would be.

She definitely had the upper hand and that was a first.

Waking up alone, without Walt was horrible.

Where was the idiot?

Although, she reasoned, on the plus side, it did mean she had had the luxury of having the whole bed to herself without him being there and fidgeting about all night.

It was something at least.

But not to come home at all. Well, that was just unforgivable.

How dare he.

She decided that she would punish him by ignoring him for the rest of the day when he finally got home. He hated it when she did that. But what did he expect. Stupid man. Didn't he know how lucky he was to have someone like her at home waiting for him?

She let out a small sorrowful moan that sounded huge in the silence of the empty house.

And now she just felt sad and alone and abandon.

Oh Walt, Walt, Walt. Where are you?

She got up and made her way down the stairs and headed into the kitchen to get herself a drink.

The thing was, Ruby relied upon Walt for everything. She knew she shouldn't, but she did. He was her world.

She didn't have to work and had the run of the house.

She saw her friends whenever she wanted too. When she thought about it like that, she thought she was probably quite lucky, but she didn't feel lucky this morning, she just felt alone.

Her Mother had advised her not to trust men as they would take advantage of her.

Ruby didn't like to believe everything her Mother had told her about men, especially as far as Walt was concerned.

But her advice was starting to take on an I told you so arms folded stance this morning.

Ruby dismissed these negative thoughts from her mind as she helped herself to some water and then sat at the kitchen table staring out at the garden.

It was a beautiful morning.

She liked the garden. She liked spending time in it with Walt. They had spent many hours out there pottering about together.

He would witter on, as was his want, while she just listen and thought to herself how lucky she was to live with a man like him.

Maybe she would revise her thoughts about him, if he didn't get home soon.

She yawned, got up and made her way back down the hallway and before she reached the front door, turn left into the living room.

She liked this room. It was comfy and warm.

The large clock ticked over the mantelpiece mirroring the rhythm of her steady heartbeat.

She sat down on the sofa in the spot that Walt always favoured for himself.

Ruby favoured the same spot as well.

Ruby closed her eyes and thought of all of the nights that she and Walt had spent in this spot.

Just the two of them, cuddled up and warm, while the clock ticked as they watched something on the box that sat opposite.

She opened her eyes and saw her reflection in the box. She looked like a statue.

She looked smaller and slightly distorted in this reflection.

She studied herself. People said how beautiful she was, and she quite liked that.

Walt liked it as well.

When she mentioned it to her friend Mabel who lived opposite, Mabel’s response was “Yes, I hear that a lot as well. I rather like it too.”

Mabel lived with George.

George drank a bit too much on Friday nights.

But Mabel loved him never the less and wouldn't hear a bad word said against him.

Walt would often say to Ruby on hearing George drunkenly singing in their street on his way home from the local on a Friday night.

“I bet you're glad you're not Mabel Rubes?”

And sometimes Ruby was.But not today.

At least George always came home. Unlike Walt.

Mabel and Ruby shared secrets about George and Walt.

And that ultimately was the string that bound their friendship together.

It was an escape and a blessing to have a friend like Mabel, one with whom you could share so much.

Just wait until Ruby saw her later when she would sound her out about her displeasure with Walt's behaviour and see what Mabel thought about it all.

She began to grow restless and annoyed all over again.

She wished she could talk to Mabel now, but she knew that she was busy with George this morning and besides, all the doors were locked and Ruby was trapped in the house until Walt got home.

Walt had become more security conscious in the last few weeks after a spate of burglaries in their area.

Thank God no one had broken in to their house as the thought of strangers scared her.

Probably kids the neighbourhood watch man who had paid them a visit had said.

Ruby disliked children. They made her nervous.

She liked order and routine. She didn't like Walt being thoughtless and inconsiderate of her welfare like he was being now.

The more she thought about it the more she realised that he took her love and acceptance of him and his ways for granted a bit too much.

Maybe her Mother had been right after all.

She didn't want to sit in their spot any longer, not while she was so angry with him.

So she walked over to the window and parted the curtains.

Oh come on Walt, she thought, where in heavens name are you?

As she looked out onto the street and saw the familiar unfolding weekend routine coming into play.

There was George across the street putting out the rubbish.

Maybe George did like a tipple or two on a Friday after work, but he never left Mabel alone over night wondering where he was.

And there was Mabel by his side.

And in that moment, Ruby saw their affection they had for one another and wondered if people ever consciously noticed the same of her and Walt.

And now she wasn't so annoyed any more, now she just felt sad and lonely trapped in the house, on this beautiful morning whilst the clock ticked away the time, waiting for Walt to get home.

She returned to the sofa and sat down. She was tired of waiting. She yawned, sat back closed her eyes and swiftly fell asleep.

At first she thought she was dreaming.

But her ears had definitely heard it, that unmistakable solid click of the lock as the key rotated to the right from the outside of the front door signalling his return.

Ruby opened her eyes and turned her head towards the sound that was quickly forward by the familiar sound of Walt's footsteps as he entered the house.

“Rubes?” He called out.

“Ruby?”

Ruby stayed where she was. He could wait she thought.

She sat up and and decided to adopt an air of indifference towards him.

She had waited and waited and now he could wait.

She sat very still, she was very good at that.

She heard him hang up his coat and take of his shoes.

“Ruby! Ruby Ruby Ruby”

She heard him bound up the stairs and the creaking of the floorboards above her head, confirmed that he was checking all the rooms for any sign of her.

Her indifference turned to excitement as she waited for him to find her.

“Ruby?”

She heard him coming back down the stairs and head towards the kitchen.

“Oh God, I hope I didn't lock you out Rubes.”

She waited. As still as a statue. She'd win a prize if they were playing that game.

She heard him fill the kettle and the click as he turned it on to heat the water.

Heard him exhale in exasperation at not being able to find her.

And then she heard him walking back down the hallway and met his eyes as he entered the living room.

She cock her head to one side as she looked at him and smiled.

“why didn't you answer when I called you?”

The tone of his voice indicated that he was annoyed.

Now you know what it feels like she thought.

He looked at her and pushed his hand through his hair.

She remained silent.

He looked guilty.

She turned away from him and looked towards the window.

He crouched down so that he could meet her eye line.

“I am so sorry that I didn't come home. I know that you have been locked in the house. It was unavoidable. If you had a mobile, I could have called to let you know, but seeing as you don't, well, what could I do?”

There was a funny tone to his voice, something playful.

She turned back towards him.

She blinked at him and decided that she wouldn't keep up the pretence.

She got up and walked into the kitchen and he followed behind her.

“I'll tell you what Rubes, how about I make you your favourite supper later. A big sorry for me to you. Would you like that?”

Ruby made her way towards the back door.

Yes, she thought, yes Walt, that would be a start. But right now though, she needed to get out of the house as she wanted to go into the garden as she needed some fresh air and more urgently she needed a pee.

She turned and looked at him and chirped.

“Is that a yes then?”

She repeated the sound.

Oh get on with it and open the door Walt she thought.

He bent down and stroked her.

She repeated her chirping, mip, mip, mip noise and became more animated as she stood by the back door.

Walt finally got the message and unlocked the it.

Thank God for that thought Ruby.

And with Walt home, and the back door open, she stuck her tail in the air and made her way out of the house and into the garden and was finally free at last.

Dear Diary By Holly Searle

I have kept a diary since I was fifteen.

That seems like ages ago now. Which of course it is.

I have no idea why I started to keep one, it may well have been instilled in me by the Monday morning ritual at primary school.

Each Monday we were required to write down what we had done over the weekend and embellish this with an illustration.

I used too stress about these entries as I always worried that my weekends were not as exciting as my classmates.

I can quite clearly recall adopting a modicum of artistic licence even back then, when having exhausted all possibilities of providing anything of merit, I just made something up.

I let out a deep mental sigh as I realised, there and then, that I could actually do that. I could make something up, and no one (apart from me), would be any the wiser.

Except me.

My teacher remarked after reading it "Oh how lovely."

Result.

Later on, when I was fifteen, I bought my first diary and away I went.

It was a tiny little jobbie. There wasn't really that much space to write anything of any great interest. It mostly just allowed me to make notations about meetings and alluded to friends, and a bit of telly and music and the like.

I then moved on to an equally smallish one, but at least it afforded me a day per page as opposed to five per two pages.

That's diary spec speak.

I became quite adamant about filling it in with everything and anything I could.

And from then on, I was hooked.

With each new diary came a new year and vice versa, all recorded, by me on their virgin pages.

The only time I ever stopped, was during my twenties when a boyfriend I was living with read my diary and started questioning me about my entries.

How very dare he.

I was so affronted, that I left him and stopped keeping one for a number of years.

I regret this deeply now as I have Lost Years that I can only access via my memory bank and not in a written format.

It is terribly frustrating.

And here is why.

What a diary allows you to do, is to revisit the person that you once were, and all of the people and places that you knew.

It is amazing.

They are like little tardises that can transport you back to a moment in your history that you had long since forgotten.

There is that saying that people use. The one that goes "If I knew then what I know now."

That is what these tiny formations of your own personal history allow you to see, who you once were, but also more importantly, who you have become.

They are fascinating little scribes and insights into a past that I create as I write the page for the day that I have just participated in each and every night.

My early diaries are bizarre to read. I think to myself "Who the hell is this person?"

And more often than not, I think about the people I knew and wonder about them. And sometimes, I cannot place who the person is that I have dedicated an entry too.

I rack my brain and shake my head, until I finally mentally smile and think to myself "Oh it was them!"

Some contain ticket receipts for films or bands that I saw. Or more personal artefacts like a pressed flower or a card that someone gave me.

Some nights, after I have written about my day, I think "I wonder what I was doing on this very day last year?" And hey presto, I can actually read about it, as I have recorded it all in a previous diary.

Sometimes the concertina effect of time and space plays tricks on me, as I discover an entry for an event, that I could have sworn was fairly recent, but was in fact ages ago.

I think "Blinking heck, was that really that long ago?"

The other night I looked back further and was delighted to find that I am happier now than I was back then.

They are fantastic tools and I love keeping mine.

As you can imagine, I have amassed quite a collection now. Unlike Kenneth Williams', mine aren't all the same style. They all vary and mirror quite nicely each year in which they were written.

I do wonder sometimes if it is just me that keeps a diary as people often comment, on discovering that I do, that they wouldn't have the discipline to do so.

But it isn't really discipline that keeps me recording it all.

It is just like that sequence in The Time Machine when Rod Taylor keeps moving the lever on the time machine a little further and further, thus propelling himself forward in time and enabling him to see how time changes everything.

It is a bit like that keeping a diary, but only in reverse.

And just as Rod discovered, it is all quite illuminating, and that is why I keep it up and will continue to do so.

If You Tolerate This By Holly Searle

Last week I went off to see my son take part in a drama showcase at his school.

The evening was made up of performances by the kids from the various year groups that attend the school.

Since arriving at the school, he was encouraged along with all of the other year sevens to partake in some after school activity.

My son decided that he fancied the drama group, so he joined.

And I am very pleased that he did as he is really enjoying it.

There were two halves to the evening's action, that were each divided up into vignettes of either a themed mime or minor performance by these young actors.

I attended both nights.

I enjoyed it more on the second night than the first, probably because I had already seen it once and was able to compare it to the previous night.

Like most productions of any show that you see, there were some really gifted and notable aspiring actors in the making.

I hope that they keep it up, I really do.

But, there was an overriding thematic that I found a little unsettling and it got me thinking about why it appeared to be the resolution to most of the pieces that were performed.

And that was the use of violence.

In each improvised piece, there it was, as clear a day being used by these talented mites as the solution/resolution to the narratives they had made up.

And it made me so sad.

A few days later I thought about the culture that these kids have grown up in and what they have been exposed to.

And when I thought about all of that, it didn't really surprise me one little bit as to why they had littered their stories with so much violence.

We have a nine o'clock watershed on the telly don't we?

But, at six o'clock each evening, the news is transmitted.

The news has been subjecting us all to an array of the most horrific stories for the longest time now.

I cannot think when the desensitisation of this indecent descent began. But, I can honesty say, that anything that I have seen on the news in recent weeks, months and years, has been far worse that anything a made up drama with the odd swear word in has produced, after the nine o'clock watershed.

Yes, I know. Horrible things happen in the world.

But, how much of that do they really need to be exposed to?

And it isn't just all of the retrospective paedophiles, sex trafficking gangs and missing children stories, but all of the other negativity being disseminated about the country that they all live in.

And then there are those heads of industries and politicians a like, that we have all put our trust in, only to discover, that they were all laughing maniacally behind our backs like the Joker.

They are all being progressively outed as bare faced criminals and liars and have all be sent to Arkham Asylum, where they will spend the rest of they days typing all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy on the keyboards of their laptops.

And then what about all of those sporting heroes falling off all of the pedestal we placed them all on like an unexpected flash flood in the Death Valley.

Shocking stories that will make God himself weep as he shakes his head in dismay whilst waiting to leave with the dolphins.

Thanks for all the shit his note will read.

Recession mania is an epidemic all on its own, the symptoms of which are frustration, degradation and humiliation.

What sort of messages are these news reports sending out to our children?

Hopeless ones, obviously.

My point is this.

Was it any wonder that these precious children of ours were using violence as the solution in their carefully crafted tales after they have been raised on such a diet.

Well funnily enough, no.

And then there is the angry villagers with the torches and pitchforks heading for castle Frankenstein mentality that trends like a virtual cancer on social media sites.

If anyone ever captured your image and you are still considered an undesirable, you are basically fucked.

They will find you not unlike Daniel-Day Lewis in The Last of the Mohicans.

They will provide photographic proof. I'd contact John Woo if I were you and get your face/off.

One day, that will be the only solution.

So here is what I think, I think you should all stop worrying about fizzy drinks and concentrate more on what your children are being mentally exposed too.

For that is far worse and much more detrimental to their health, than a few grams of sugar.

Now, I want you all to go and listen to If You Tolerate This Your Children Will Be Next and pray that there is still time.