You, Me and Sean Bean By Holly Searle

Don't ask me when the conversation started as its evolution is a mystery to me. But it did and as such, is an open ended work in progress even as we speak.

There is no construction to it, no solid mapped path or sense to its being and no serious point to it at all. But rather a delightful randomness that is centred around the main subject matter, that is, the one and only Sean Bean. There are a multitude of additional open ended add ons, which could be interpreted by any given stranger overhearing them, simply as the mutterings of a pair of delusional nutters who share an over active imagination in their idolisation of this actor from South Yorkshire.

That may well be, but it is funny and amuses us endlessly.

If I had to identify how and why it started, I would have to say that it was due to my friend's admiration of Sean's portrayal of Richard Sharpe, the eponymous hero from the television series Sharpe and of my own particular fondness for the character of Mellors, that he played in Lady Chatterley's Lover. It was these two specific protagonist that led him to become the object of our joint affection, and that created the firm foundation of our co-conspiratorial conversations that mutated into something more.

Voids of time are often filled either in person or via a social media internet connection of our shared harmless interest in Sean. There no intended malice, but rather an innocent inquisitorial interest in him and his antics, both on and off the screen.

He is a true patriarchal legend in both spheres, simply because there is a fine blurred line between the characters he plays and because of the man he appears to be in reality. And this, in our minds, presents an ongoing parody of who Sean Bean is and how we relate to him.

Initially, we bonded over the fact that he is probably the sort of bloke who would be a good laugh to go for a drink with as he possesses a rare rough and ready masculinity that has all but diminished in today's society. With the sort of personality traits that you could also attribute to Tom Jones or associate with the character of Gene Hunt in Ashes to Ashes or Life on Mars.

The sort of man who once wore Old Spice or Brut aftershave whilst a dolly bird draped herself all over him. The kind of bloke who drank and smoked and liked to call women 'Love' or 'Pet' rather than 'Babe' and who would have no hesitation in initiating a punch up in the event that some 'Little Git' should make the mistake of eyeing up his bird.

Men like that may be dinosaurs that have just been stored in the loft with a pile of dusty old Playboy magazines and rusty bicycle clips. But what have they been replaced with? Poor politically correct substitutes with confused dumbed-down personalities that Sean and his like couldn't even begin to understand and quite frankly would have no time for.

So we decided that was why we liked Sean. He is a man's man, a no nonsense say it like it is type of fellow, who would have a few stories to tell that would make you roar with laughter and who would make sure you got home safe at the end of the night.

Our investigations led us to the fact that Sean liked a drink in North London with his pals. We did consider our options having sourced this information (hike over there and see what transpired), but came to conclude that there were far too many unforeseen scenarios that might disrupt our quest so we left it.

AS time went on, we indulged ourselves by keeping our faith and interest in him alive, by posting status' which referred to Sean on Facebook. Then one day my phone rang and my friend's little voice said “Holly, you know that every time we mention him, it appears in a feed on his page and anyone and everyone can see it”. She laughed and I laughed as if it was nothing at all and yet something all at the same time. It wasn't serious and our friends all thought it was funny as well, or maybe they are just Goodfellowing us and just for a fleeting moment, I felt like Joe Pesci.

We have long periods of time when Sean even isn't even mentioned at all. He's not the centre of our universes after all, our own lives are. But somewhere up there in the ether he is never forgotten. We keep him suspended in a joint mental limbo until he happens to appear on a chat show, a late night movie or in a story in the press. And when he does, he is reborn in our joint consciousness once more.

During a recent trip, my friend and I found ourselves on a train diversion on our way home. We boarded the replacement bus service and during the hour it took us to get from station A to station B to reconnect with the correct train, we discussed Sean at great length.

These exchanges often follow the same pattern, that is to say I assume the role of Sean and adopt his Northern accent. I then act out what I consider his appropriate reaction would be to the main topic of the conversation that is taking place.

The phrase "You had to be there." Often enters my mind during these moments.

By the time we arrived at Station B, we had decided that Sean should in actuality employ us both. That way, we could live in his swanky villa in North London and take care of all of his needs as he is undoubtedly a busy man who is often away filming, that would be happy to know that we were there waiting for him when he returned.

After one of his many costume drama escapades on route to Mordor or Winterfell, that would last for at least a few months, we worked out that he would welcome a dinner party on his return that we would arrange. We then decided who we would invite to attend and what we would serve for supper. I thought that Chas and Dave could perhaps be persuaded to provide the entertainment as I am sure Sean would enjoy a sing along to Ain't No Pleasing You.

Of course, knowing we were all just trustworthy mates, Sean would furnish us with shed loads of cash with which to make these arrangements possible.

We also came to conclude that we would get all of this done and dusted early on prior to his return. That way, we could spend a week away before hand pampering ourselves, so that by the time he was due home and before the dinner party guests arrived, we would be well rested from the joint effort we had put in.

At that moment the train arrived and we continued on our journey and Sean was filed away.

This was the last time we discussed him at great depth or that I thought about him, until I ventured into a random bookmakers after The Grand National to collect my winnings and, I kid you not, as I approached the counter, the fellow who was standing there was his spitting image.

I smiled dumbfounded, and handed him the ticket saying that I was one of millions of people who he probably encountered at this time of the year due to the National.

He laughed and returned my banter in a Sheffield drawl. I was gob smacked.

I left with my meagre £2.50 winnings. But my mind was rich in wonder, as I thought for a brief moment that perhaps it had actually been him researching a role.

Next a text from my friend letting me to know that Sean was being interviewed by Jonathan Ross. I switched over immediately to watched him. He is not the easiest man in the world to interview and, as I watched him that became uncomfortably apparent.

Maybe he is shy or maybe he was worried that he hadn't banked that day's takings from the bookmakers.

Then a story appeared in the press about his latest role playing a transvestite and I think that was for us the beginning of the end. Not that either of us have an issue with cross-dressing men, but rather because it showed a side of Sean that debased his masculinity in our eyes.

He hasn't really been discussed and we have both in since switched our alliances to other men that we find more suitable.

My friend was been quite taken by the scamp that is Jeremy Renner probably because he looked good in that outfit he wore in The Hurtlocker and is quite fetching as Hawkeye in Avengers Assemble.

Me, well that is for me to know, but I will undoubtedly still remember Sean from time to time with great affection and fondness, especially when I see a tree.

To Be Honest, I Would Rather You Just Made Me Laugh By Holly Searle

Earlier this year I spent the evening with the actor Jon Hamm who plays the character of Donald Draper in the show Mad Men

(Actually, that opening paragraph is a tad misleading and as I am not that sort of girl, I shall begin again).

Earlier this year in London I attended an evening hosted by BAFTA, where the actor Jon Hamm who plays the character of Donald Draper in the excellent series Mad Men was being 

interviewed to promote the up and coming fifth season of the show as it was about to air in America.

I was keen to attend this interview not because of Jon Hamm, but because I am a bit of a geek when it comes to the show in which he happens to be one of the key actors.

On arrival at the venue it soon became pretty clear that a majority of the tickets for this event had been purchased by ladies. 

Now, like me, they could have been Mad Men geeks, but after the lights dimmed in the auditorium and dear Jon made his suited and booted way onto the stage, the swooning murmurings from the masses of lasses, lead me to conclude quite the opposite.

That is fine I thought, if they want to objectify him, who am I to criticise their choice of fantasy and his role in it. Carry on girls I thought, fill your boots.

Once their beating hearts became still and a hush finally descended, I focused on the reasons why I was there and settled down and became jackanory engrossed in the interview. 

The choice of clips used to illustrate the points raised and the discussion between Mr H and his interviewer about the lives of the additional characters that also appear in the show, had me knicker-gripped to my seat.

So far, so good I thought.

It was an intelligent, entertaining and well put together interview, but I started to become aware as it proceeded (with immense irritation I have to add), that even the interviewer was taking it upon herself to use every opportunity to flirt with Mr Hamm. He in turn unashamed lapped this up and proceeded to reciprocate it when he noticed the response it was receiving from the women in the audience.

At that point Donald Draper appeared with his charming Mack The Knife smile in addition to the odd coy Bond like fiddle of his cuff links. He loved it, but alas had reverted to a type that I have no time for.

And although he had me at Hello , at that point he lost me.

The interviewer then asked the audience if there were any questions they would like to put to Jon.

Being the geek that I am, I had my hand raised before those words had left her mouth.

Of course, Mr Hamm turned to me all twinkle and expectation, but I meant business and royally rained on his parade by not asking him a question at all, but rather telling him something about Peggy Olson (another character from the show). I had no idea where I was going with my wittering observations or what the point was I was actually trying to make, but I wasn't going to lower my intellect by joining in with the general consensus of being all smarmy in order to cop a feel of his charm by flirting with him.

And at that moment, I swear I saw tumble-weed roll in the space between us.

He crumbled before me and as I didn't have him at Hello the mic was whipped out of my hand and passed too a much more acceptable sexy simpering saucy Sally example of contemporary femininity in order to reset the lust heat setting on the interview. Jon shone once more (phew), while I was left alone in the dark a little breathless and lonely (sigh).

Still, I had made my point and had had my say. And even if I hadn't played along, I was happy enough.

But, in retrospection it made me contemplate what all the fuss was about as to be honest, I don't fancy Jon Hamm or his alter ego Don at all.

He is a handsome fellow of that there is no doubt. But, I came to conclude that he just isn't my type as I would rather spend my time laughing with a man of character, rather than with one that lacks one.

Now, don't all shout at once, but he just isn't funny.

When I was a child I did a fair impression of Frankie Howard, if you twisted my arm and threatened me with court action, I would probably consider doing it for you sometime.

But let's face it, Jon Hamm is far too good-looking to be charmed by my impression of Frankie Howard and with all due respect, I am holding out for a man who might be (it isn't brilliant to be honest, so don't hold your breath).

I have a theory that we choose a type of counterpart that best compliments our own very early on and then base all future suitable mates unconsciously upon this selection. I thought about those I that I'd had crushes on and came up with the following candidates (and please bare in mind that, I could have chosen Donny Osmond or David Cassidy) Danny Partridge, Neil Reid and Harpo Marx.

For those of you who have no idea of whom I speak, Danny Partridge was Keith Partridge's younger ginger rotund brother in The Partridge Family. Neil Reid was a young Scottish lad in a kilt who won Opportunity Knocks several times singing a song called Mother of Mine. And Harpo Marx was the silent harp playing genius who appeared along side his brothers in The Marx Brothers movies.

Make of that what you will. But what I surmise from those choices, is that I was more draw to character than charisma. Danny Partridge was a bit of a cheeky scamp, while Neil Reid displayed an innocent venerable nature that played to my underdeveloped maternal heart-strings and Harpo, well, he just made me laugh.

So, in a pocket-book Freud nutshell sort of way, those characteristics appeal more to me than any others.

Like wise, all of those who idolised pretty boy pop stars, will probably be content to accept those as a trait above all others that they can relate to. But not me. I have always been more intrigued by what cannot be seen rather than what can.

As I developed so did my tastes. I will admit to once having a crush on Roy Castle and Mark Curry from Blue Peter, but then progressed onto a new phase that encompassed lookers like David Soul and Robert Redford.

However, these were short-lived phases as these types of men never fancied me (classically good-looking ones), so I left them behind in search of something else. Something more intrinsic, formidable and funny.

I had always enjoyed comedy and laughing from a very early age and this wasn't such an odd plimsoll line to reach considering that I had been raised on a diet that consisted of The Marx Brothers and Carry On films intertwined with a healthy dash of Eric and Ernie, Norman Wisdom,The Two Ronnies, Dick Emery and Dave Allen.

But as I grew I also began to appreciated the power of observational comedy and so when I encountered Bill Hicks' style, my character combined with intellect quota cup overflowed. Here was a man who was funny and smart with it. A man whose perception of the world matched mine completely. And Bill wasn't your typical looker either, but he was incredibly funny and intelligent and to me that was far more sexier than those who possess an over defined set of abdominal muscles any day of the week. I still miss you Bill,I always will.

In the wake of Bill Hicks, there were other comics, some that just didn't make me laugh or manage to cut the mustard. But that some did with their laugh till your stomach ache humour. Who can fail to laugh at David Baddiel and Robert Newman's History Today sketches, or Charlie Higson and Paul Whitehead as Ralph and Ted, or Vic Reeves and Bob Mortimer doing anything and I adore the character of Angelos Epithemiou played by Renton Skinner. Frank Skinner, Paul Merton, Alan Carr and the irrepressible talent that is Stewart Lee just blows me away every time he opens his mouth and his timing is just spot on. Steve Martin, Eddie Izzard, Kathy Burke, Harry Enfield, Ben Elton, Ben Stiller, French and Saunders the list is endless.

Stand up isn't a new medium by any means, but there does appear to be a vast available wealth of comedic talent now than at any other time and that, my friend is a good thing as far as I am concerned. It is sexy, vital, accessible and real.

Laughing is so good for you and has the power to make you feel included with a majority rather than a minority, which is where I would place those who cannot see past the handsome man in the suit. Jon Hamm and his acolytes could learn a lesson or two here, but they probably never will and in a strange way, that is fine by me, for I know where I would rather be sitting.

Look at Narcissus, he fell in love with himself because that was all he could focus on. If only he had gone to a comedy night every once in a while, he might have laughed at himself instead of spending hour after hour gazing at his reflection and fiddling rather coyly with is cuff links.

So, my Frankie Howard impression then...

Why Being Perfect is the Enemy of all that is Good By Holly Searle

I couldn't say how many times I have looked at myself in one mirror or another over the years, but I can tell you that my perception of myself wasn't always defined by my own judgement of what I saw looking back at me, but rather of those who surrounded me.

Realising this actually makes it worse when you think about it. I am not going to harp on about societies adaptation of what is considered to be beautiful and what is not because quite frankly my dear, I don't give a Rhett Butler damn about it now as I no longer believe a word of it.

No Siree, all of that is just so old now or maybe I am just past caring about its effect on me and find it as annoying as an unwanted mosquito bite whilst holidaying in paradise.

So lets investigate a bit further Watson shall we?

A few weeks ago I was listening to a Rabbi on the radio. He was talking about how we all conduct ourselves in society and the effect that this can generate on the well being of others. He concluded his spot, by saying that perfection was the enemy of good and if we all just aimed for goodness rather than trying to be perfect all the time, then we would all be much more content with ourselves and our lives. At that moment the sun came out in my mind and then it dawned on me that this was the very thing that I had being trying to communicate to others who had at one time or another questioned themselves because they weren't perfect.

It was pretty awe inspiring moment to hear someone redress an imbalance in such a simple way.

For so many years I wanted to be perfect and I wanted to be perfect because my so called faults were highlighted by others and this made me conscious of what I didn't have as opposed to what I did have.

I wasted years worrying about being the girl I wasn't instead of being the girl I was and this started to manifest itself in a number of ways. I wasn't too worried about the way I looked so much, but I did start to worry about my weight and would spend ages alone in my room doing various exercises to improve myself. I also ate very little and developed an unhealthy relationship with the bathroom scales which I would stand on every morning and sigh when they failed to provide proof that I had lost weight.

And I wasn't the only one. I remember attending a party where other girls discussed the best colour to wear to make themselves look skinny. All the time my poor little brain was stock piling this peer provided information instead of thinking happy carefree thoughts about the world and its wife.

Then the culture of body dis-morphia began and it wasn't just other young women that I came in to contact with who professed a dislike of their self image as I was introduced to the calorific value of food by a boyfriend who was so knowledgeable on the topic that he could have sat an exam and passed without revising. The poor fellow, he was obsessed with his weight, but when I looked at him, I just saw him and he looked absolutely fine to me. After we broke up I was left knowing how many calories existed in which item of food and how much I could eat to loose or gain weight.

This enlightenment opened up an new chapter to me and I followed his lead and began to obsess about everything I ate in order to loose weight.

When simple dieting failed to make a difference, I am ashamed to say that I opted for a quick fix solution by downing handfuls of laxatives so that anything that I did eat, didn't stay in my system for very long. It was disgusting.

The crazy part of all of this was that in reality, I wasn't even fat or overweight. I was just normal but it would never matter how much weight I lost or how thin I became because I was never going to be satisfied with the way I looked because I simply wasn't perfect.

In order to disguise my imperfect body, I would wear clothes that were far too big for me to avoid drawing attention to my figure. I hid like that for years under layers of clothes being ashamed of myself.

When you are in that zone it creates a sort of tunnel vision perspective from which there is no deviation or distraction as it is all you think about. What you see in the mirror is never good enough as it isn't what you want to see, it just isn't perfect and sadly will never be, but quite frankly what is?

Perfection is describes it as being free from any flaws or defects and I wonder how many of us that can actually be attributed to? Dear God, even Mary Poppins was only “Practically perfect in every way”.

No my friends the reason why we try to be perfect rather than good is due, I believe to the level of love and wholesome nurturing that we all receive as individuals. Yes, yes it is that old nature versus nurture theory again, but it is so true. Nature made us who we are (warts and all) while an unwholesome nurture chose point these out instead of politely overlooking them and embracing us for the priceless works of art that we all actually are.

I cannot remember when I stop worrying about it all, it may well have been the day that I had to move the bathroom scales to make space for something else and I just couldn't find a suitable new location for them so in the end, I just throw them away.

Result, no more early morning negativity before I had engaged with the rest of humanity.

I still know of several friends of whom even today structure their lives around their unhealthy relationship with food and their bathroom scales and it makes me so incredibly sad.

Good is defined as being genuine and to be considered that, I believe you have to accept yourself for who you are and stop worrying about who you are not. Value what you have and not what you think you lack or feel that you are unable to achieve. Life is just too damn short.

I recently came into contact with a young women who had been through the most unimaginable experiences (drug addiction, alcoholism, rape and physical self harm) all due to her inherent lack of self worth. Through the support of a network of friends she began to clean up her act and regain her self and engage with life and all because she began to realise that she was a good person who had begun to value herself again.

I had met her before I heard her story and had thought she was one of the most beautiful young women I had ever met.

Being good is the way forward for all of us as it is more realistic goal, whereas perfection is not.

At one point Mary Poppins sings to Bert the chimney sweep “ Though you're just a diamond in the rough Bert, underneath your blood is blue”. Which is encouraging coming from her and a good note on which to end, rather than a perfect one.

Bye Bye Baby By Holly Searle

Why would that Bay City Roller's tune spring to mind at a tragic moment like this?

Probably, because that is how human beings deal with adversely emotional situations that they have absolutely no control over, she told herself.

Also, that tune (in particular) was an ironic hug (from herself, to herself) in not only the situation that she currently found herself alone in, but also, because she was alone in this sad sorry state of affairs and had been for a while now.

Its optimistic repetitive upbeat tune was keeping her anchored to a reality in surreal uncharted waters she could quite easily have drifted off into, if she hadn't of had that one thing to focus on she didn't know what she would have done.

It had sprung to mind as soon as it had happened, after she had realised it had happened, after she had left the bathroom, after peering into the toilet bowl and seeing the undeniable truth of her loss resting lifelessly on its bottom.

There it laid, weigh down by a quiet grief, a motionless rosy red sea anemone, separated from her and then after one flush (or was it two), washed away from view to prevent its sight from having to be explained to the innocent bystanders of the household.

Bye, bye baby.

Her other babies where downstairs, safe from the events unravelling upstairs, although she was sure that the older one probably knew what was happening.

But she couldn't think about that now, couldn't think about anyone else as it was taking every ounce of her being to keep herself together. Not to loose the plot, panic and freak out, but to view the situation from a calm and objective point of view and to concentrate on that tune. Don't focus on the pain or the grisly reality of it all and the abundant sense of guilt she felt for there was too much of that already.

Too much had transpired in too short a space of time as too many people had demanded her attention as their Mother and their wife for her to deal with it all fairly. But it was unfair that she had been forced into those situations and made to take sides, to make choices. Such demands had in all probability caused this and would cause further issues and force later discussions after the dust had settled. It was becoming clear that there was no other alternative other than the one that was been becoming clearer to her in the days before today’s events and in the days that would follow.

Don't make me cry.

When terrible events unfold, so do people in their response to them. Her husband on hearing her early suspicions that she needed to go to hospital as she suspected the seriousness of the situation had decided that now would be the perfect opportunity for him to deal with the tyres on his car. He left her alone with it all, telling her that he needed to attend to that first before he could take her to the hospital. He was gone for a long time.

Maybe he needed his own space in this moment, in this event in which to deal with what was to come, or maybe his ill thought out errand was his own pragmatic way of dealing with it. Bye, bye baby. After all, she reasoned later, when we have no control over what we can't control, it is better to have control over something we can.

Still, his actions were unforgivable and could never be mended or fixed like his car. That isn't love is it she reasoned.

Her other babies waited downstairs with each other for company and while he was away, she sat alone on the edge of their bed with herself for company. She was still as a statue with equal stony emotions with The Bay City Rollers playing on a loop in her head.

She couldn't recall how long she waited and sat like that alone until he returned to take her to the hospital, but it was infinite.

The children were taken to other family members to wait for a how long is a piece of string amount of time for her.

His mother and sister took care of the youngest one, united with her in her pain, promising her that their son and brother would take care of her. What did they know? It was what they didn't know that really mattered and the shame they would feel if they did.

The baby was gone and so was her love and respect and any trust or belief she may have once had in him and the rocky foundations of their relationship.

In A&E they waited, but waited for what? Usually people waited there for a diagnosis, but she didn't need to be told, she knew what had happened, so they waited not for a diagnosis, but a conformation of something she already knew.

The edges of the reality became blurred by the amount of time that passed waiting, a destination not a choice until eventually she was given some sanctuary and dignity in which to grieve in a cold monastical room away from it all.

The tune that had kept her company now became a faint echo and it was almost liberating to be recognised as the lead participant in her loss.

Was it shock that made her feel so cold? When she mentioned this to her husband, he left her again so he could return home to collect a cover for her. Didn't hospitals have those she wondered laying alone on the bed in the still room waiting for him again.

She was becoming annoyed with his actions now and his abandonment of her. He had a choice in his movements in his actions, whilst she presently did not.

That, she realised laying there, was the core root of all of their problems in their relationship. She did, but he didn't. He was constantly absent from it all, while she wasn't, leaving all of the responsibilities to her. Wasn't marriage an equal partnership between two adults? She had just ended up becoming a sponge, mopping it all up and now she was so weight down that she didn't even have the peace of mind to deal with his remissive lack of support any longer.

A nurse arrived and brutally connected her to an IV and left. Her arm began to hurt and she laid there worrying about the needle in her arm. She started to panic as the pain grew as she remembered reading something about air bubbles entering the body through air left in syringes and the fatal damage this could caused.

There was no button to press, no one to relay her fears to. If he was he here she could have told him.

The new pain became her focal point and when he did eventually return with the cover, she told him of her fears and he called the nurse and she duly removed the IV explaining that the first nurse had chipped her bone when she had inserted it.

A few days later a nasty black bruise appeared along the lower length of her arm a visible wound of time spent in the hospital.

Her husband left for the night and the hospital had no beds available for her to spend the night in, so she spent the night in a bed just off of A&E with several others.

Her bed was positioned just opposite the entrance and exit, so she could clearly see and was aware of all of the comings and goings for the next eighteen hours. It was like being behind the scenes of a theatre production. The hospital was busy all through the night with life and distress and disappointment and despair and she didn't sleep at all.

In the far end of the makeshift ward was a teenage girl who was waiting for a psychologist to speak to her as she had taken an overdose.

When he arrived, the poor girl explained her the story of why she had done what she had done without any thought for her dignity or privacy in retelling her story.

The girl's story centred around her lost of identity in her extended family and as she listened to it, she couldn't help but think of her own daughter how she had become lost. The girl had become overlooked in her current situation that had once just consisted of her and her mother. Her mother had married a man she didn't get along with and had started a new family and she felt that she no longer fitted in and had lost her mother. She had taken the pills as a cry for help as her frustration with it all had taken its toll on her.

She was horrified as she listened as it all sounded too familiar and cried for her own daughter.

The girl was sent home with a friend but her story remained and haunted her for the rest of the night.

The events of the previous day and the night and now the following morning concertinaed in to one fixed time span. There were no gaps as life in the hospital remained unmarked by time, only by events.

A nurse had assured her that a porter would arrive to take her for a scan to confirm her loss. Her husband arrived, but the porter did not. In the end, he took her himself to the appointment rather unnecessary in a wheelchair.

When they arrived at the maternity unit they waited. They couldn't think of what to say to each other and she looked at the posters on the walls that featured babies instead.

When her time came and she was positioned on the examinations table. The doctor explained that her pregnancy was too early to use the traditional scanning method, so he would have to use a vibrator like wand to detect any signs of life.

The discomfort was both physical and mental and after a few moments of searching he announced that she was “Empty” and removed the wand.

Don't make me cry, but she did at that moment and after a few tears, swallowed them down again until she could find a private space later in which to let them out, away from strangers.

Her husband pushed her back to the ward, why? She wasn't ill, she had lost her baby.

The hospital discharged her and sent her home and she was looking forward to seeing her children again, but her daughter was missing and he didn't seem to know where she was, but she held onto the one that was present and was grateful for him.

The following day everyone went about their business as though it had never happened, but of course it had and she felt the grief and saw how it illuminated all the pain in her patchwork family.

The time passed and all of them acted out their roles until it became an unbearable sequence of events and she broke and told her husband that she had to see the doctor. It was only then that she let the tears out. The pain and realisation of it all a monsoon of hot emotional tears and loss for the living and those recently passed.

The doctor was kind and understood, she gave her pills to ease the hurt and said that she would arrange for her to speak to someone and she did and it helped.

She was at last able to speak to confess the misgivings she had hidden about the prospect of having another baby, about how trapped she felt being with him and how she had panicked at the thought of subjecting another child to the unevenness of their relationship.

How she had dallied with the idea of terminating the baby and of how when she recounted her appointment with her GP in which she had had this discussion, how the GP had looked at her as though she were mad. She wasn't mad, she just had no support and had been placed in the middle of a situation that she could no longer sustain without something giving way because she was being pulled apart and had lost sight of which way to go.

If you hate me after what I say.

Maybe she had been crazy as people often acted out of character when faced with a situation that they knew was unresolvable. The baby was a catalyst for it all and would become a victim to that situation as she herself had become.

Letting it all out was cathartic. The counsellor listened to her and it felt good at last to be able to confess the suppressed truth of it all but it offered no absolution as the guilt remained. She wondered if she would be able to ever forgive herself for even contemplating such an action and if the baby had known and that is why it left on its own accord.

In the end she stopped taking the pills and with a clear head and renewed strength told her husband that she didn't love him any more and told him to leave. His temper and his lack of support was something she and her children could do without. She loved them too much to allow it to continue.

When he left he took the car with its new tyres and the weight of his character lifted from the household and all was calm and peaceful.

In the days, weeks, months and years that followed his exit, she struggled with money, spun plates and juggled to keep it all on an even keel. It wasn't easy, but it was better than it had been and she laid a new foundation for her and her children and never forgot about the baby that she lost.

Bye bye baby, baby goodbye.

In (Cyber)space No One can You Scream By Holly Searle

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Revelations By Holly Searle

Age and hindsight are a funny combination.

Age teaches us what we feel happy with, whilst hindsight affords us a view of the past that enables us to see the truth of a particular event that, although we questioned the rudiments of its being at the time, we were in actuality correct about the disagreeableness of it all when it took place, even if it was over twenty years ago.

I was able to reach this conclusion during a series of discoveries on a recent trip I took with a friend to a birthday do of someone we had both known in our youth and had established contact with again via a social networking site.

Reaching a certain age has afforded me the freedom from fear of the known as well as the unknown and that, I must say, I find empowering and liberating on every level as I enjoy the exploration of new places and of meeting new people.

Knowing what suits you and what you like to do and what you do not like to do, offers an incredible freedom and an understanding of who you have become.

At times, when I think about the life map that I have followed that has led me to this point, I do have to admit that there were some choices I wish I'd had more control over and this journey with my friend brought into focus one of those past times that I'd had.

So here is the thing, my friend and I plan the trip, it is a pleasure to spend time with her as we share a bridged commonality of similar situations and a refreshing openness and humour of life which I know is a rare and wonderful thing.

We meet, travel to the location of our hotel in a gorgeous historical hamlet in England and we do not stop talking or laughing from the moment we meet until we say goodbye twenty-six hours later.

After we book into the hotel we go and explore the town and realise are both half staved so we have lunch and talk. It was so easy and unburdened and then revealing as during the course of our lunch conversation we speculated on who may also be in attendance at the gathering later that night, at which point his name came up.

I winced as I recalled this man and his relentless pursuit of me when I had been eighteen years old. I hadn't thought about it for a while, but when I retold the story it was as clear as it had been when it took place.

I had just left home and was lodging in a room of a house owned by a friend. I had no clear plans and all of my school friend had left and were away at university while I was working a dead-end job with no clear motive on a day-to-day basis other than to go to work, shop, eat and be sociable.

I was shy and lonely and I should imagine quite vulnerable.

He was an outsider, not someone whom I knew or became aware of from an established place like school or work, but rather a friend of a friend. He wanted me to go out with him but I wasn't interested as I didn't fancy him and I remember he had this rather unattractive twisted mouth, which made me feel quite sick. But he was relentless in his requests and would not take no for an answer. I eventually agreed to meet him and then stood him up. My landlord questioned me as to why I wasn't going to go and I said I just couldn't.

He didn't give up and continued to call either in person at the house or on the telephone until I agreed to go out with him again. So there we were on our first and only date in a pub by the river in West London and I remember thinking how I just wanted to get out of it and go home, but unlike now, I had no contingency plan to look after myself or protect me from a man like him.

It got late and he suggested we go to his for a coffee which wasn't that far away, but in fact was a fair old walk as it transpired and I ended up in a place which I was totally unfamiliar with.

I was so naive and raw it was unbelievable and he used this disadvantage to his advantage without even questioning the implications of his actions.

He was living in a squat that was filthy and squalid. I felt dirty just being there. He put on some music and proceed to have sex with me and I allowed that to happen because I didn't know how to say no.

I just remember how horrible it was and how he kept kissing me with his horrific distorted mouth and how afterwards he laid there singing some song in an arrogant all-conquering manner which I hated. I couldn't wait to get home and away from him.The next morning he took me to the station and waved me off as I pulled out on the first available train. When I got in, the first thing I did was to have a bath. I washed and scrubbed myself until I felt clean and then went to work and tried not to think about it.

I didn't ever want to see him again and I remember he made several attempts to see me again by calling unannounced at the house, once baring a bunch of roses. I asked my landlord to tell him I wasn't in if he called again and eventually he must have got he message and stopped coming.

I moved on.

My friend listened to this story and then revealed a similar situation with him a few years on from mine. He was again very controlled and insistent in his actions but my friend was more self-assured than I had been and told him no.

I couldn't believe what I was hearing as it affirmed my reading of his actions as wrong through those he had also attempted with her. I cannot explain what it felt like to hear her story, but the revelation of the fact that he had attempted to use the same method of what he had felt was acceptable with her, made me feel sick. The first question that this raised was who else he had done this too?

We discussed it further and then continued with our day and didn't allow it to overshadow the enjoyment of our trip. But it lingered between us and in both of our minds as we referred to it in passing again later prior to attending the do in a how odd that we should both have shared that history sort of way.

We went for a drink and laughed about things that men probably think women do not discuss. It was refreshing. We talk so much that we realise that we needed to get a move on as it is getting later and we needed to get ready and go to the do.

We call a cab from the hotel reception, a few moments later a lady driver arrives, she is amazingly funny, bright , honest and great company. We arrive and she wishes us well for the evening and we exchange a glance prior to entering the pub in which the do is being hosted, as we suddenly realise that we are about to see people we haven't seen for over twenty years. It is odd and scary and I am glad she is there as I wouldn't have come on my own and she later tells me the same.

We say hello to the host, he is gracious and touched that we have both travelled such a long way to attend. We see some other people from the past and we say hello to them. We steal a private moment together and I mention the possibility of the man we have spoken of at lunch being there and my friend says that she will asked the host. When she returns, she tells me that he has said that he is meant to be coming.

I don't know how I will feel about this situation until it is presented, but I am aware that I feel stronger and safe because I am no longer alone in this now due to the fact that I have shared the story with my friend and she has my back.

Time passes and we drink and laugh and talk to people we know and those we have never met before and may never meet again. At some point we are standing at the bar and I see him across the room and he sees me. I tell my friend and she sees him too and at that moment, he stands up and he makes his way over to us and says hello to me and not her and then kisses me on the cheek.

I cannot speak as I do not know what to say as I am back in his room in his squalid squat over twenty years before. He is overweight and middle age hasn't been kind to him, but most of all I notice his twisted mouth. It hasn't changed. I look at it and I feel like I am going to throw up.

I distract this uncomfortable moment by reminding him of my friend who is standing beside us by introducing her into the situation. At first he cannot place her, but then he remembers and I clearly see the realisation in his face and quite suddenly, the tables turn as it is two against one supported by a joint knowledge of his long ago actions.

A chill sets in.

The conversation halts. He leaves us and I draw strength from her support and we conclude that he is aware of the reasons why as much as we are.

As the evening unfolds we are happy and sociable and I am aware of him watching me and us and on several further occasions he attempts to infiltrate the circle we are part of not by joining in, but by remaining on the periphery like a predator. It is uncomfortable to watch and be aware of and is also quite familiar.

He makes no further attempts to speak to me, but I catch him watching me from time to time.

He leaves and eventually so do we.

We head back to the hotel in a cab driven by the same lady who had dropped us off earlier. She asks us how it all went and we tell her. By the time we arrive back at the hotel, she is like an old friend.

In our hotel room we discuss the evening and my friend says that she has enjoyed it but how much nicer it is to return to our room and spend time together.

We sleep and in the morning we get dressed, check out and have breakfast before embarking on our journey home together. We don't discuss him any further other than I happen to mention that he had sent me a message via the same social networking site that we are both friends with the host of the do on a few years ago citing the incident I have spoken to her about. For some reason unknown to me, this man and I are friends on the site. She asks me why? And advises me to change that, which I do when I get home with one click of my mouse.

When I get home, I realise how far I have come and although hindsight is a wonderful thing, I am grateful to have a friend like her who has helped me to realise that my instinct about something that took place so many years ago wasn't misguided but how I was. I speculate on who I am now as opposed to who I was then and I am proud of the woman I have become and all the women I know especially her.

The Story of Balan Singh by Holly Searle

When I was a child I adored The Story of Ferdinand by Munro Leaf. I still have a copy today and this was the inspiration behind The Story of Balan Singh.


When I was a child I adored The Story of Ferdinand by Munro Leaf. I still have a copy today and this was the inspiration behind The Story of Balan Singh.



A long time ago, long before you or I, or your Grandparents or mine were born, in a small remote village in India, there lived a man of called Balan Singh.

He was a quiet, shy, and retiring man who kept himself to himself.

The people of the small remote village paid him no mind and simply let him be.

They were a very peaceful community, who believed that each individual was as important as the next, and that they all played a part in his or her own way however big or small and that was all that mattered, and Balan Singh fitted in very well.

Balan Singh was very grateful to be part of such a community as it allowed him to be himself and to live a quiet life.

However, sometimes the course of true our destiny often has a way of finding roles for those who do not wish to be found. And so it was that on one summer's day, that it looked for, and found Balan Singh when he least expected it.

Balan Singh worked for the village laundry. The requirements of his job were very simple, and this suited his personality perfectly.

Each day he would sack a tied bundle of the clean linen into the basket on the front of his rickety old bicycle and then peddle his way to the house of the local dignitary, where he would present the bundle to Mina Sera, the head housekeeper. She would place the fresh linen to one side, and then present him with an equally sacked and tied bundle of rather smelly used linen, along with a sandwich and a smile.

After placing the linen and the sandwich into his now empty basket, he would return her smile and then peddle back on his rickety old bicycle to the village, where he would duly wash and dry the dirty load. He repeated this task every day of the week, except on Saturdays and Sundays, when he would take to his hammock and enjoy the motion of its gentle sway, whilst reading books about magicians and their fascinating trickery.

Balan Singh often thought that if he didn't wash linen, he would like to be a magician. But he kept this preposterous notion to himself.

His job didn't pay a huge amount, but it was enough to for him to live on and to enable him to read at least two books each month.

And of course there were Mina Sera's sandwiches and smiles.

They were worth more than all of the tea in India.

Now, on one particular summer's day, Balan was on his way to the local dignitary’s house to deliver the fresh linen to Mina Sera and to collect the dirty bundle, the sandwich, and of course her smile. However, as he approached the house he heard cries of commotion coming from its direction.

As he drew nearer he was greeted with the unusual scene of many of the household staff outside the house in the courtyard, all rushing about in a state of panic with their voices raised all looking and pointing towards something that was stuck in the giant tree that stood in front of the house in the courtyard.

Balan placed his bicycle next to the house and raised his outstretched hand to his forehead and looked up at the tree.

Now, the local dignitary Shalpa Runa who lived in the house had a mischievous and adventurous little boy called Pilau.

Pilau wasn't a naughty little boy, but he often found ways of testing the patience of his parents and the staff that ran the house.

And as Balan looked up at the tree on that summer's day, he wasn't particular shocked to see little Pilau sitting in the tallest point of the tree.

Balan also saw, that hanging down from the tree was a makeshift rope that had been constructed from pieces of linen, no doubt by the industrious Pilau. And lying at the foot of the giant tree was a broken ladder.

He saw at once that Pilau must have placed the ladder against the tree to enable the first leg of his climb. A climb that had been further aided by the linen rope, which the he had managed to secure to an upper branch.

The ladder must have broken as it had fallen away from the tree and had hit the ground.

Balan sighed as he looked at the scene. Pilau had gone too far this time. With no ladder, how would they ever be able to get him down from the tree?

Far below the tree the ladies of the household, including Mina Sera, cried in despair, for they didn't know if little Pilau would ever feel the earth beneath his feet ever again.

Would he have to live in the tree like a monkey they wondered if they didn't manager to think of a way to get him down?

Way up high in the tree little Pilau looked down at all the people he knew. He was so high up that they all looked like a colony of busy ants rushing about in different directions.
He saw the broken ladder far below, and felt a little worried as he didn't know how he was going to get down without it. He still had his linen rope, but it didn't quite reach to the ground which is why he had used the ladder in the first place.

It was very quiet in the tree, apart from a troop of rather nosey chattering monkeys that were sitting in the tree next door staring at him. They were eating their lunch as they all starred. And Pilau sighed as he suddenly began to feel hungry and wished he could have some lunch as well.

Down below, the men of the household including Shalpa Runa, all scratched their heads and paced backwards and forwards and circled the trunk of the tree and the broken ladder. They discussed at great lengths how they were going to rescue the child.

And as the women worried and the men wondered, time passed by and soon the entire village had gathered in the courtyard to see the naughty boy in the tree and to think of a way of getting him down.

Other ladders were fetched, but they were too short. Ropes were thrown over the lower branches of the tree, but as soon as someone tried to climb up, the lower branches would break.

Someone even a suggested that a hot air balloon might solve the problem. They all agreed that this was a mighty fine idea, but as no one in the village owned one or knew of anyone that did, so this was out of the question.

And as they all thought hard about what to do, the day began to dwindle, and Pilau way up high in the tree, began to grow cold and tired and even hungrier. And the chattering monkeys carried on chattering and starring from the next tree. And Pilau looked at then, and they looked at him, and he began to wonder if he would have to resign himself to a life in the tree just like them.


Throughout the entire day Balan had watched all the commotion and had listened to all of the ideas. He had witnessed all of the attempts to rescue the child. All of a sudden he smiled and swiftly made his way towards the door of the room where he usually dropped off the dirty linen to Mina Sera.

There he saw all he needed. The pile of dirty linen and his waiting daily sandwich.

He picked up both items and then carried on into the house and found the stairs that took him up to the highest balcony that faced the tree, and the one next to it.

Balan put the linen down on the floor of the balcony and placed the sandwich to one side. He then started to make his own linen rope up out of the pile.

Pilau saw him arrived and waved at him and Balan smiled and waved back. And the all chattering monkeys turned to watch with great interest at Balan working away below them.

When he had finished making his linen rope, he unwrapped the sandwich and ate some of it. As he did this, one of the chattering monkeys made its way towards the balcony, passing Pilau on its way. Pilau watched as did the rest of the monkeys.

As the lone chattering monkey arrived at the balcony, Balan broke off a piece of the sandwich and gave it to him, at which point all of the other chattering monkeys began to chatter even louder. Whilst the monkey was distracted by the sandwich, Balan tied his linen rope to its tail, whilst keeping hold of the other end, and then watched with delight as the chattering monkey turned and made its way back to its tree with the piece of the sandwich in its hand, and the rope tied to its tail. He called out to Pilau to reach out for the rope as the chattering monkey passed him on its way back to its tree. Pilau did as he was told, and the chattering monkey returned to the rest of its group and duly shared the piece of sandwich.

For a brief moment, the chattering stopped.

Then Balan called to Pilau and instructed him to tie the monkey tail piece of rope, to his portion of rope, so that together they formed one. Once this had been done, Balan tied his end of the rope as tightly as he could around the balcony railing.

Balan then called to Pilau that he was coming to rescue him.

First he tested the rope. Then he removed his shoes and very cautiously stepped up on to the rope and carefully began to put one foot in front of the other with his arms outstretched.

None of the people saw Balan enter the house, take the dirty linen, or the sandwich that Mina Sera had left for him, but what they did see the rope appear as if by magic between the tree and the balcony, followed moments later by Balan walking on it, as he began his slow and careful climb towards the tree and Pilau.

A collective hush descended on the gathered crowd down below, and the chattering monkeys in the next tree stopped chattering, as all eyes looked up, and down at what Balan Singh was doing.

He carried on in this fashion very slowly onwards and upwards with all the concentration he could muster.

All the while the people below watched in silence for they did not want to break his concentration and they held their collective breath and willed him on, as he made his way towards the tree and Pilau.


Higher and higher he rose until at last he reached the tree. Pilau was so happy and glad to see him that his heart jumped for joy.

The people below let out a collective sigh. They were unable to hear the exchange between the two from such a great distance. But soon it was clear that Balan had instructed little Pilau to put his arms around his neck and to hold on to his back with all of his might.

Then with little Pilau holding on tight to him, Balan began the careful and cautious walk back along the linen rope towards the house.

The crowd below once again held its breath.

As he neared the balcony, a small girl in the crowd who was visiting from another village, broke the hushed silence and asked out loud “Who is that man and what is he doing?”

To which the crowd replied with smiles on their faces “ That is Balan Singh!”

Soon Pilau Runa was safely back in his parents arms. His mother cried tears of joy and his father the dignitary shook Balan Singh’s hand, until Balan though it might detach itself from his body.

Soon, everyday life in the village returned to normal.

Well, apart from the fact that Mina Sera became Mina Singh and now spent her weekends in the hammock with her husband, where they gently swayed while reading.

And now all the ladders in the village were locked away in a shed.

And all the chattering monkeys still chattered in the tree next to the giant one in the courtyard apart from when they were being fed each morning and evening by Pilau and his parents.

And Pilau never climbed another tree.

And time passed and the story of Balan Singh’s remarkable rescue of Pilau soon spread from one village to another, care of that small girl. And then across the whole of India and eventually the rest of the world.

And to this very day whenever a similar feat on a tightrope occurs, for whatever reason, those that witness it will always exclaim in amazement “Look at that person, they’re balancing!”

And so the moral of this story is that although you may be happy to be part of the audience, sometimes destiny, mischievous children, chattering monkeys and smiles, might decide otherwise.

The End

Hands - By Holly Searle

The idea for the following short story Hands was inspired by a combination of two factors; Max Bygraves and my love of hands and their own personal history which is often overlooked.
Enjoy.





Now he was retired, Joseph Culloty wondered how he ever managed to work a fifty hour week with so much going on in his life, although he was glad that he was, retired that is.

Martha had woken him with a kiss this morning and he embraced it and her as he always had and did with the wholehearted knowledge that he still had the woman he loved, in his arms, in his life and in their bed.

As usual Martha had left him with a further kiss and a cup of tea in bed as she was off out to meet their youngest daughter Ruby for lunch.

Joseph liked the fact that Martha was able to spend time with their daughter and that they enjoyed their time together, it made him smile.

He drunk his tea and listened to the silence in the house. The air still held a trace of Martha’s scent that formed the trail of her momentary former presence before leaving for the day. He liked that as well.

He moved his body from beneath the cover of the duvet and stood up and stretched his arms above his head and felt the twinge of sleep’s stiffness in his back. He didn’t for one moment think this might be his age as at fifty-five he didn’t feel old, he felt lucky.

Today he intended to finish his latest project.

Being retired at a younger age had afforded him choices that had made all of his working life worthwhile.

It was a pleasure not to be confined by time or a train timetable (or in a train for that matter), gridlocked in traffic or held hostage by harsh weather conditions that had always made his commute home a nightmare.

No, he’d finished those chapters of his life and had managed to turn down the corner of a page just past the half way point of his own personal novel.

No, not old at fifty-five, but just beginning to explore the heart of the story, where all the threads of his narrative had started to join up and the conclusion was still a mystery and a far off destination.

In the bathroom he studied his naked reflection in the mirror. Even though the unnatural light was a flattering ally, he took this into consideration whilst making his inspection and came to conclude that he wasn’t in too bad a condition. His body was still toned and defined rather than an out of control heap. A closer look at his face revealed a network of lines and creases. Distinguished Martha called it laughing at his vanity, weather-worn he thought, laughing at himself. He could do with a shave, but decided that as he didn’t need to and because he quite liked his dark rural appearance and the fact that Martha had vocalized her own appreciation of it, by making that “Grrrrrrr” noise as she rubbed her face against his in bed earlier that morning confirmed his decision. “Grrrrrrrr” he said to his reflection.

He showered and dressed and made his way downstairs to the kitchen where he made himself another cup of tea. He had been a coffee drinker once, but now he found that he preferred tea. It was less urgent and intrusive somehow.

He looked out the kitchen window at the day and liked the lush greenery of the garden and the peace it generated.

With his mug in hand, he opened the kitchen door and commenced his now route to work as he crossed the garden and arrived at the door of his humble work shop that he had built for moments such as this.

As he opened the door he was greeted with the familiar warm smell of wood and sawdust (or tree snow as Ruby had called it when she was little).It was a dry and embracing smell that was both friendly and tactile towards him and his senses.

He placed his mug on his work bench and switched on the radio.

For years he had designed and overseen the construction of buildings as an architect for so many people. Mostly they had been domestic. Other people’s visions of the space that they wanted to inhabit. He had taken pride in most of what he had achieved for them, but he would be lying to himself if he didn’t admit that some jobs had been taken on purely for monetary gain.

He drunk some of his tea and considered what he needed to do today. In the background the radio filled the vacuum of movement and created what he like to think of as an unobtrusive assistance.

This was interrupted by the sound of the cat flap as Moss made his way into the workshop and jumped up onto the workbench.

“Hello fat cat” Joe said stroking him as the cat made its way to his usual spot and sat down. Moss was a good workshop companion, quiet and non judgemental but not without wages. Joe had a packet of biscuits on a shelf above his workbench from which he sourced half a digestive for the expectant Moss. He dipped it in his tea so that it was soft and easy for the cat to consume.

Moss waited patiently while Joe went through this tried and tested means of consideration and then ate it and helped himself to a drink of water from the bowl on the window sill that the workbench rested against, then looked at Joe hopefully. “Maybe later eh?” Joe said to him and Moss sat down and blinked at him in acknowledgement of this offer.

Set for the day, Joe turned his attention to the item that rested on the floor. No one knew what he was making. It was something he had wanted to do from the moment his eldest daughter Grace had announced she was expecting his and Martha’s first grandchild.

Martha had asked him if he was working on a private commission “Of sorts” he had responded and winked at her. She was as curious as the cat that watched over him now, but not as easily distracted by a digestive biscuit. “I don’t want to show you until it is finished” he had offered her. Unlike Moss, Martha had given him a blank look and hadn’t blinked at all.

As he finished his tea, his attention was taken by the radio and his face broke into a smile as he lent over and turned it up a little. Laughing he said “Well I’ll be Moss!” The cat’s ears twitched at the mention of its name (and probably in the hope of further biscuits) as Max Bygraves deep nasal tones sang out from the radio.

“You need hands to hold someone you care for…you need hands to show that you’re sincere..”

Joe hadn’t heard this song in years. He stood and listened and was transfixed. Not by the vaudevillian production it conjured up, but by the song and the memories associated with it that he had long since forgotten.

He saw his father clearly singing and comically miming the actions of the words to him when he had been a small boy.

“…When you feel nobody wants to know you, you need hands to brush away the tears”

Both of them laughing while his mother protested telling his father not to get him all hyped up before his bedtime. His father had ignored her and had dealt with her jovial protests by taking her in hand (literally) and had made her dance with him which had made a small Joe laugh even more as his parents took a turn around the kitchen floor. His mother had laughed as well and telling his father to behave himself with a smile on her face as well as in her dance steps.

“When you hold a brand new baby..you need tender hands to guide them on their way”

Joe looked down at his hands and thought about his babies; Grace, Hannah and Ruby. He called them his three muses and Martha had asked “And what does that make me?” “Why a Goddess of course” he had replied. “Charmer!” She had said laughing.

He held his hands up and inspected them. Just like his face they had a used look about them, but they had worked hard for him and the thought suddenly occurred to him that they were also a record of his history so far.

“You need hands to thank the Lord for living and giving us this day..Let’s dance ladies and gentlemen”


It was a profound thought that moved him. They had held his mother’s hand to and from school until he was old enough to be aware of the childish nature of this action. The thought sadden him as he would give anything to feel her hand in his once more.

“You need hands to show the world you’re happy..and you need hands when you have to stop the bus”

Happy hands, when had his hands been happy? When he had held Martha’s for the first time and then placed a ring on her finger after she had agreed to marry him. When he had rested them lovingly on her huge pregnant belly (more than once) and had held his babies proudly for the entire world to see. They had built sandcastles in the summer (sandy hands) and snowmen in the winter (icy hands).

They had placed reassuring plasters on the cuts of his crying children, they had taken photographs, written postcards to his parents while he travel and dialled numbers from far away telephones to let his loved ones know he was safe. They had worn gloves (how many?) for warmth and safety; they had learnt to tie his own laces with pride as well teaching his children how to tie theirs. They had wound up watches and clocks and had, on request, zipped up his wife’s dress for numerous special occasions as well as having to unzip them again, he smiled.

The had defended him and had demonstrated his frustrations over the years, they had signed cheques and paid bills, had removed splinters, drawn up plans, driven cars, decorated Christmas trees, pushed prams, peeled potatoes, painted walls. They had given away his daughters to their soon-to-be husbands.

“But the hands we love so dear are the hands we love to hear…are the hands you give to us”

They had certainly shown his appreciation over the years. He had always found clapping a primitive sort of action. They had clapped at speeches (some deserved, some not) at graduations and at the end of expensive productions as well as his children’s various school nativities.

“Everybody, are the hands that you give, Everybody, that’s nice, thank you, Thank you ladies and gentlemen, thank you”

The song ended and Joe leant over his workbench and turned the radio down.

“Thank you Max” he said. Moss stirred at the sound of his voice and Joe blinked at him.

He turned his attention to the unfinished object on the floor and moved towards it and trailed his hand across its finished surfaces. It felt smooth and satisfying to touch. Once he had waxed it, the crib would be finished.

Joe was pleased with it, pleased with what he had produced and all he had achieved. He imagined Grace’s new baby sleeping in the crib and thought about its own tiny hands and its mother’s gently rocking it to sleep.

He turned back to his workbench and reached for the tin of wax that was on the shelf and placed it on the bench. Then he gave a grateful Moss another piece of biscuit and set about his task while the spirit of Max Bygraves lingered in the workshop and his heart.

The End